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Prologue

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The black unicorn stepped from the morning mists, almost
as if born of them, and stared out over the kingdom of
Landover.

Daybreak hovered at the crest of the eastern horizon,
an intruder that peeked from its place of concealment to
catch a glimpse of night's swift departure. The silence
seemed to deepen further with the appearance of the uni-
corn—as if that one small event in that one tiny comer
was sensed somehow throughout the whole of the valley.
Everywhere sleep gave way to waking, dreams to being,
and that moment of transition was as close as time ever
came to being frozen.

The unicorn stood near the summit of the valley's
northern rim, high in the mountains of the Melchor, close
to the edge of the world of fairy. Landover spread away
before it, forested slopes, and bare rock crags dropping
toward foothills and grasslands, rivers and lakes, forests
and scrub. Color glimmered in hazy patches through the
fading dark where streaks of sunlight danced off morning
dew. Castles, towns, and cottages were vague, irregular
shapes against the symmetry, creatures that hunkered
down in rest and breathed smoke from dying embers.

There were tears in the eyes of green fire that swept

2                  THE BLACK UNICORN

the valley end to end and glittered with newfound life. It
had been so long!

A stream trickled down and collected in a basin of rocks
a dozen yards from where the unicorn stood. A tiny gath-
ering of forest creatures crouched at the edge of that pool
and stared in awe at the wonder that had materialized
before them—a rabbit, a badger, several squirrels and
voles, an opossum and young, a solitary toad. A cave
wight melted back into the shadows. A bog wump flat-
tened back into its hole. Birds sat motionless upon the
branches of the trees. All were stilled. The only sound
was the ripple of the stream over mountain rock.

The black unicorn nodded its head in recognition of the
homage being paid. Ebony body gleamed in the half light,
mane and fetlocks shimmering like silk thrown in the
wind. Goat's feet shifted and lion's tail swished, restless
movements against the backdrop of the still-life world.
The ridged horn knifed the darkness, shining faintly with
magic. There had never before been a thing of such grace
and beauty in all of creation as the unicorn and never
would be again.

Dawn broke sharply over the valley of Landover, and
the new day was begun. The black unicorn felt the sun's
heat on its face and lifted its head in greeting. But invisible
chains still bound it, and the cold of their lingering pres-
ence dispelled almost instantly the momentary warmth.

The unicorn shivered. It was immortal and could never
be killed by mortal things. But its life could be stolen away
all the same. Time was the ally of the enemy who had
imprisoned it. And time had begun to move forward again.

The black unicorn slipped like quicksilver through
shadows and light in search of its freedom.

E'

•&

Dreaips...

B.

•a

"I had a dream last night," Ben Holiday announced to
his friends at breakfast that morning.

He might as well have been giving a weather report.
The wizard Questor Thews did not appear to hear him,
his lean, owlish face furrowed in thought, his gaze di-
rected some twenty feet above the breakfast table at an
invisible point in space. The kobolds Bunion and Parsnip
barely looked up from eating. The scribe Abemathy man-
aged a look of polite curiosity, but for a shaggy-faced dog
whose normal look was one of polite curiosity, that was
not particularly difficult.

Only the sylph Willow, just come into the dining hall
of castle Sterling Silver and seated next to him, showed
any real interest—a sudden change of expression that was
oddly disquieting.

"I dreamed about home," he continued, determined to
pursue the matter. "I dreamed about the old world."

"Excuse me?" Questor was looking at him now,
apparently returned from whatever planet he had been
visiting. "Excuse me, but did I hear you say something
about. . . ?"

"Exactly what did you dream about the old world, High
Lord?" Abemathy interrupted impatiently, polite curi-

4                  THE BLACK UNICORN

osity become faint disapproval. He looked at Ben mean-
ingfully over the rims of his eyeglasses. He always looked
at him like that when Ben mentioned anything about the
old world.

Ben forged ahead. "I dreamed about Miles Bennett.
You remember my telling you about Miles, don't you—
my old law partner? Well, I dreamed about him. I dreamed
that he was in trouble. It wasn't a complete dream; there
wasn't a true beginning or end. It was as if I came in
halfway through the story. Miles was in his office, work-
ing, sorting through these papers. There were phone calls
coming in, messages being delivered, people in the shad-
ows where I couldn't see them clearly. But I could see
that Miles was practically frantic. He looked terrible. He
kept asking for me. He kept wondering where I was, why
I wasn't there. I called out to him, but he didn't hear me.
Then there was a distortion of some sort, a darkness, a
twisting of what I was seeing. Miles kept calling, asking
for me. Then something came between us, and I woke
up."

He glanced briefly at the faces about him. They all were
listening now. "But that doesn't really tell you every-
thing," he added quickly. "There was a sense of... some
impending disaster lurking behind the whole series of im-
ages. There was an intensity that was frightening. It was
so ... real."

"Some dreams are like that, High Lord," Abemathy
observed, shrugging. He pushed the eyeglasses back on
his nose and folded his forelegs primly across his vested
chest. He was a fastidious dog. "Dreams are frequently
manifestations of our subconscious fears, I've read."

"Not this dream," Ben insisted. "This was more than
your average, garden-variety dream. This was like a
premonition."

Abemathy sniffed. "And I suppose the next thing you
are going to tell me is that on the strength of this emo-
tionally distressing, but rationally unfounded, dream you

Terry Brooks                                   5

feel compelled to return to your old world?" The scribe
was making no effort to conceal his distress now, his
worst fears about to be realized.

Ben hesitated. It had been more than a year since he
had passed into the mists of the fairy world somewhere
deep in the forests of the Blue Ridge Mountains twenty
miles southwest ofWaynesboro, Virginia, and entered the
kingdom of Landover. He had paid a million dollars for
the privilege, answering an advertisement in a department
store catalogue, acting more out of desperation than out
of reason. He had come into Landover as King, but his
acceptance as such by the land's inhabitants had not come
easily. Attacks on his claim to the throne had come from
every quarter. Creatures whose very existence he had
once believed impossible had nearly destroyed him.
Magic, the power that governed everything in this
strangely compelling world, was the two-edged sword he
had been forced to master in order to survive. Reality had
been redefined for him since he had made his decision to
enter the mists, and the life he had known as a trial lawyer
in Chicago, Illinois, seemed far removed from his present
existence. Still, that old life was not completely forgotten,
and he thought now and then of going back.

His eyes met those of his scribe. He didn't know what
answer to give. "I admit that I am worried about Miles,"
he said finally.

The dining hall was very quiet. The kobolds had
stopped eating, their monkey faces frozen in those fright-
ening half grins that showed all their considerable teeth.
Abemathy was rigid in his seat. Willow had gone pale,
and it appeared that she was about to speak.

But it was Questor Thews who spoke first.' 'A moment,
High Lord," he advised thoughtfully, one bony finger
placed to his lips.

He rose from the table, dismissed from the room the
serving boys who stood surreptitiously on either side, and
closed the doors tightly behind them. The six friends were

6                  THE BLACK UNICORN

alone in the cavernous dining hall. That apparently wasn't
enough for Questor. The great arched entry at the far end
of the room opened through a foyer to the remainder of
the castle. Questor walked silently to its mouth and
peered about.

Ben watched curiously, wondering why Questor was
being so cautious. Admittedly, it wasn't like the old days
when there were only the six of them living at Sterling
Silver. Now there were retainers of all ages and ranks,
soldiers and guardsmen, emissaries and envoys, messen-
gers and assorted others that comprised his court, all
stumbling over one another and into his private life when
it was least convenient. But it wasn't as if the subject of
his going back to the old world hadn't been discussed
openly before—and by practically everyone. It wasn't as
if the people of Landover didn't know by this time that
he wasn't a native Landoverian.

He smiled ruefully. Ah, well—there was no harm in
being cautious.

He stretched, loosening muscles still tightened from
sleep. He was a man of ordinary appearance, his height
and build medium, his weight evenly distributed. His
movements were quick and precise; he had been a boxer
in his youth and still retained much of his old skill. His
face was brown from sun and wind with high cheekbones
and forehead, a hawk nose, and a hairline that receded
slightly at the comers. Age lines were beginning to show
at the comers of his eyes, but the eyes themselves were
brilliant blue and icy.

His gaze shifted ceilingward. Morning sunlight
streamed through high glass windows and danced off pol-
ished wood and stone. The warmth of the castle seeped
through him, and he could feel her stir restlessly. She was
always listening. He knew that she had heard him speak
of the dream and was responding with a measure of dis-
content. She was the mother who worried for her brash,
incautious child. She was the mother who sought always

Terry Brooks                                   7

to keep that child safe beside her. She didn't like it when
he talked of leaving.

He glanced covertly at his friends: Questor Thews, the
wizard whose magic frequently misfired, a ragtag scare-
crow of patchwork robes and tangled gestures; Aber-
nathy, the court scribe become a soft-coated Wheaten
Terrier through Questor's magic and left that way when
the magic couldn't be found to change him back again, a
dog in gentleman's clothing; Willow, the beautiful sylph
who was half woman, half tree, a creature of the fairy
world with magic of her own; and Bunion and Parsnip,
the kobolds who looked like big-eared monkeys in knick-
ers, a messenger and a cook. He had found them all so
strange in the beginning. A year later, he found them com-
fortable and reassuring and felt protected in then-
presence.

He shook his head. He lived in a world of dragons and
witches, of gnomes, trolls, and other strange creatures,
of living castles and fairy magic. He lived in a fantasy
kingdom in which he was King. He was what he had once
only dreamed of being. The old world was long past, the
old life gone. Odd, then, that he still thought of that world
and life so frequently, of Miles Bennett and Chicago, of
the law practice, of the responsibilities and obligations he
had left behind. Threads from the tapestry of last night's
dream entwined within his memory and tugged relent-
lessly at him. He could not forget easily, it seemed, what
had comprised so many years of his life ...

Questor Thews cleared his throat.

"I had a dream last night as well, High Lord," the
wizard declared, returned from his reconnaissance. Ben's
eyes snapped up. The tall, robed figure hunched down
over his high-backed chair, green eyes clear and distant.
The bony fingers of one hand scratched the bearded chin,
and the voice was a wary hiss. "My dream was of the
missing books of magic!"

Ben understood the other's caution now. Few within

8                  THE BLACK UNICORN

Landover knew of the books of magic. The books had
belonged to Questor's half-brother, the former court wiz-
ard of Landover, a fellow Ben had known in the old world
as Meeks. It was Meeks, in league with a disgruntled heir
to the throne, who had sold Ben the kingship of Landover
for one million dollars—certain that Ben would fall victim
to one of any number of traps set to destroy him, certain
that when Ben was finally dispatched the kingship would
become his to sell again. Meeks had thought to make
Questor his ally, the promise of knowledge from the hid-
den books of magic the carrot used to entice his half-
brother to his cause. But Questor and Ben had become
allies instead, eluding all the traps that Meeks had set and
severing the old wizard's ties with Landover for good.

Ben's eyes fixed Questor's. Yes, Meeks was gone—
but the books of magic still remained concealed some-
where within the valley . . .

"Did you hear what I said. High Lord?" Questor's eyes
sparkled with excitement. "The missing books—magic
gleaned by wizards of Landover since the dawn of her
creation! I think I know where they are! I saw where they
were in my dream!" The eyes danced. The voice dropped
to a whisper. "They are hidden in the catacombs of the
ruined fortress of Mirwouk, high in the Melchor! In my
dream, I followed after a torch that no hand carried, fol-
lowed it through the dark, through tunnels and stairways
to a door marked with scroll and runes. The door opened;

there were blocks of stone flooring and one marked with
a special sign. It gave at my touch and the books were
there! I remember it all... as if it really happened!"

Now it was Ben's turn to look dubious. He started to
say something in reply and stopped, not knowing what to
say. He felt Willow stir uneasily beside him.

"I did not know whether to speak of my dream or not,
to be honest with you," the wizard confided, his words
coming in a rush. "I thought maybe I should wait until
I was able to discover if the dream was false or true be-

Terry Brooks                                   9

fore I said anything. But then you spoke of your dream,
and I ..." He hesitated. "Mine was like yours, High
Lord. It was not so much a dream as a premonition.
It was strangely intense, compelling in its vividness. It
was not frightening like yours; it was . . . exhilarating!"

Abernathy, at least, was not impressed. "All this could
be the result of something you ate, wizard," he suggested
rather unkindly.

Questor seemed not to hear him. "Do you realize what
it would mean if I were to have the books of magic in my
possession?" he asked eagerly, hawk face intense. "Do
you have any idea of the magic I would command?"

"It seems to me you command quite enough already!"
Abernathy snapped. "I would remind you that it was your
command—or lack thereof—over magic that reduced me
to my present state some years back! There is no telling
what damage you might cause if your powers were en-
hanced further!"

"Damage? What of the good I might accomplish?"
Questor wheeled on the other, bending close. "What if I
were to find a way to change you back again!"

Abernathy went still. It was one thing to be skeptical—
another to be foolishly so. He wanted nothing more in all
the world than to be human again.

"Questor, are you sure about this?" Ben asked finally.

"As sure as you. High Lord," the wizard replied. He
hesitated. "Odd, though, that on a single night there
should be two dreams ..."

"Three," Willow said suddenly.

They stared at her—Que,stor, his sentence unfinished;

Ben, still trying to grasp the significance of Questor's rev-
elation; Abernathy and the kobolds speechless. Had she
said . . . ?

"Three," she repeated. "I, too, had a dream—and it
was strange and disturbing and perhaps more vivid than
either of yours."

Ben saw the disquieting expression again, more pro-

10

THE BLACK UNICORN

nounced, more intense. He had been preoccupied before
and had not paid close attention. Willow was not given
to exaggeration. Something had shaken her. He saw a
worry in her eyes that bordered on fear.
"What was it that you dreamed?" he asked.
She did not speak immediately. She seemed to be
remembering. "I was on a journey through lands that
were both familiar and at the same time foreign. I was in
Landover and yet I was somewhere else. I was seeking
something. My people were there, dim shadows that whis-
pered urgently to me. There was a need for haste, but I
did not understand why. I simply went on, searching."

She paused. "Then daylight passed away into dark-
ness, and moonlight flooded a woods that rose all about
me like a wall. I was alone now. I was so frightened I
could not call for help even though I felt I must. There
was a mist that stirred. Shadows crowded so close that
they threatened to smother me." Her hand crept over
Ben's and tightened. "I needed you, Ben. I needed you
so badly I could not stand the thought of not having you
there. A voice seemed to whisper within me that if I did
not complete my journey quickly, I would lose you.

Forever."

Something in the way Willow spoke that single word
chilled Ben Holiday to the bone.

"Then suddenly a creature appeared before me, a
wraith come from the mists of the predawn night." The
sylph's green eyes glittered. "It was a unicorn, Ben, so
dark that it seemed to absorb the white moon's light as a
sponge would absorb water. It was a unicorn, but some-
thing more. It was not white as the unicorns of old, but
ink black. It barred my passage, its hom lowered, hooves
pawing at the earth. Its slender body seemed to twist and
change shape, and I saw it was more demon than unicorn,
more devil than fairy. It was blind in the manner of the
great marsh bulls, and it had their fury. It came for me,
and I ran. I knew, somehow, that I must not let it touch

Terry Brooks

ii

me—that if it were to touch me I was lost. I was quick,
but the black unicorn followed close behind. It wanted
me. It meant to have me."

Her breath came quickly, her slender body tense with
the emotions that raged within. The room was deathly
still. "And then I saw that I held in my hands a bridle of
spun gold—real gold threads drawn and woven by the
fairies of the old life. I didn't know how I had come to
possess that bridle; I only knew that I mustn't lose it. I
knew that it was the only thing in the world that could
harness the black unicorn."

The hand tightened further. "I ran looking for Ben. The
bridle must be taken to him, I sensed, and if I did not
reach him with it quickly, the black unicorn would catch
me and I would be . . ."

She trailed off, her eyes fastened on Ben's. For an in-
stant, he forgot everything she had just told him, lost in
those eyes, in the touch of her hand. For an instant, she
was the impossibly beautiful woman he had come upon
bathing naked in the waters of the Irrylyn almost a year
ago, siren and fairy child both. The vision never left him.
He recaptured it each time he saw her, the memory be-
come life all over again.

There was an awkward silence. Abemathy cleared his
throat. "It seems to have been quite a night for dreams,"
he remarked archly. "Everyone in the room but me ap-
pears to have had one. Bunion, how about you? Did you
dream about friends in trouble or books of magic or black
unicorns? Parsnip?"

The kobolds hissed softly and shook their heads in un-
ison. But there was a wary look to their sharp eyes that
suggested they did not wish to treat the matter of these
dreams as lightly as Abemathy did.

"There was one thing more," Willow said, still looking
only at Ben. "I came awake while I ran from the thing
that hunted me—black unicorn or devil. I came awake,

12

THE BLACK UNICORN

but I felt certain the dream had not ended—that there was
still something more to come."

Ben nodded slowly, his reverie broken. "Sometimes
we dream the same dream more than once ..."

"No, Ben," she whispered, her voice insistent. Her
hand released his. "This dream was like yours—more
premonition than dream. I was being warned, my High
Lord. A fairy creature is closer to the truth of dreams
than others. I was being shown something that I am meant
to know—and I have not yet been shown all."

"There are stories of sightings of a black unicorn in the
histories of Landover," Questor Thews advised sud-
denly. "I remember reading of them once or twice. They
happened long ago, and the reports were vague and un-
confirmed. The unicorn was said to be a demon spawn—
a thing of such evil that even to gaze once upon it was to
become lost..."

The food and drink of their breakfast sat cooling on
plates and in cups on the table before them, forgotten.
The dining hall was still and empty, yet Ben could sense
eyes and ears everywhere. It was an unpleasant feeling.
He glanced briefly at Questor's somber face and then back
at Willow's once more. Had he been told of her dream—
and perhaps even of Questor's as well—and not experi-
enced his own, he might have been inclined to dismiss
them. He did not put much stock in dreams. But the mem-
ory of Miles Bennett in that darkened office, nearly frantic
with worry because Ben was not there when he was
needed, hung over him like a cloud. It was as real as his
own life. He recognized a similar urgency in the narrative
of the dreams of his friends, and their insistence simply
reinforced a nagging conviction that dreams as vivid and
compelling as theirs should not be dismissed as the by-
products of last night's dinner or a collection of overactive

subconsciousnesses.
"Why are we having these dreams?" he wondered

aloud.

Terry Brooks

"This is a land built on dreams. High Lord," Questor
Thews replied. "This is a land where the dreams of fairy
world and mortal world come together and are channeled
one to the other. Reality in one is fantasy in the other—
except here, where they meet." He rose, spectral in his
patchwork robes. "There have been instances of such
dreams before, frequently in scatterings of up to half a
dozen. Kings and wizards and men of power have had
such dreams throughout the history of Landover."

"Dreams that are revelations—or even warnings?"

"Dreams that are meant to be acted on, High Lord."

Ben pursed his lips. "Do you intend to act on yours,
Questor? Do you intend to go in search of the missing
books of magic—just as your dream has advised?"

Questor hesitated, his brow furrowed in thought.

"And should Willow seek out the golden bridle of her
dream? Should I return to Chicago and check out Miles
Bennett?"

"High Lord, please—a moment!" Abemathy was on
his feet, a decidedly harried look about him. "It might be
wise to think this matter through a bit more carefully. It
could be a very grave mistake for the lot of you to go
running off in search of... of what may very well turn
out to be a collection ofgastrically induced falsehoods!"

He faced Ben squarely. "High Lord, you must remem-
ber that the wizard Meeks is still your greatest enemy.
He cannot reach you as long as you stay in Landover, but
I am certain he lives for the day you are foolish enough
to venture back into the very world in which you left him
trapped! What if he discovers that you have returned?
What if the danger that threatens your friend is Meeks
himself?"

"There is that chance," Ben agreed.

"Yes, there most certainly is!" Abemathy pushed his
glasses firmly back on his nose, his point made.

He glanced now at Questor. "And you should be wise
enough to appreciate the dangers inherent in any attempt

14

THE BLACK UNICOKN

to harness the power of the missing books of magic—
power that was the tool of wizards such as Meeks! There
were rumors long before you and I came into being that
the books of magic were cast in demon iron and conjured
for evil use. How can you be certain that such power will
not consume you as quickly as fire would a piece of dried
parchment? Such magic is dangerous, Questor Thews!

"As for you—" He turned quickly to Willow, cutting
short Questor's attempts at protest. "—yours is the
dream that frightens me most. The legend of a black uni-
corn is a legend of evil—even your dream tells you that
much! Questor Thews failed to advise in his recitation of
the histories of Landover that all those who claimed to
have seen this creature came to a sudden and unpleasant
demise. If there is a black unicorn, it is likely a demon
strayed from Abaddon—and best left alone!"

He finished with a snap of his jaws, rigid with the
strength of his conviction. His friends stared at him. "We
are only surmising," Ben said, attempting to sooth his
agitated scribe. "We are only considering possible alter-
natives ..."

He felt Willow's hand close again about his own. "No,
Ben. Abernathy's instincts are correct. We are past con-
sidering alternatives."

Ben fell silent. She was right, he knew. Not one of the
three had said so, but the decision had been made all the
same. They were going on their separate journeys in pur-
suit of their separate quests. They were resolved to test
the truth of their dreams.

"At least one of you is being honest!" Abemathy
huffed. "Honest about going if not about the danger of
doing so!"

"There are always dangers . . ." Questor began.

"Yes, yes, wizard!" Abemathy cut him short and fo-
cused his attention on Ben. "Have you forgotten the
projects presently underway, High Lord?" he asked.
"What of the work that requires your presence to see it

Terry Brooks

i5

to completion? The judiciary council meets in a week to
consider the format you have implemented for hearing
grievances. The irrigation and road work at the eastern
borders of the Greensward is set to begin, once you have
surveyed the stakings. The tax levy requires an immediate
accounting. And the Lords of the Greensward are to visit
officially three days from now! You cannot just leave all
that!"

Ben glanced away, nodding absently. He was thinking
all at once of something else. Just when was it he had
decided that he would leave? He couldn't remember mak-
ing the decision. It was almost as if somehow the decision
had been made for him. He shook his head. That wasn't
possible.

His eyes shifted back to Abemathy. "Don't worry. I
won't be gone long," he promised.

"But you cannot know that!" his scribe insisted.

Ben paused, then smiled an entirely unexpected smile.
"Abernathy, some things must take precedence over oth-
ers. Landover's business will keep for the few days it will
take me to cross over to the old world and back again."
He rose and walked to stand close to his friend. "I can't
let this pass. I can't pretend the dream didn't happen and
that I'm not worried for Miles. Sooner or later, I would
have to go back in any case. I have left too many matters
unfinished for too long."

"Such matters will keep better than those of this king-
dom, should you fail to return. High Lord," his scribe
muttered worriedly.

Ben's smile broadened. "I promise I will be careful. I
value the well-being of Landover and her people as much
as you."

"Besides, I can manage affairs of state quite nicely in
your absence, High Lord," Questor added.

Abernathy groaned. "Why is it that I feel no reassur-
ance whatsoever at such a prospect?"

Ben cut off Questor's response with a cautionary ges-

i6

THE BLACK UNICORN

tare. "Please, no arguing. We need each other's sup-
port." He turned to Willow. "Are you determined in this

as well?"
Willow brushed back her waist-length hair and gave him

a studied, almost somber look. "You already know the

answer to that question."

He nodded. "I suppose I do. Where will you start?"
"The lake country. There are some there who may be

able to help me."

"Would you consider waiting for me until I return from
my own journey so that I might go with you?"

The sea green eyes were steady. "Would you wait in-
stead for me, Ben?"

He squeezed her hand gently in reply. "No, I guess
not. But you are under my care, nevertheless, and I don't
wish you to go alone. In fact, I don't wish either Questor
or you to go alone. Some sort of protection may prove
necessary. Bunion will go with one of you, and Parsnip
with the other. No, don't argue with me," he continued
quickly, seeing words of protest forming on the lips of the
sylph and the wizard both. "Your journeys could prove

dangerous."

"And yours as well, High Lord," Questor pointed out.
Ben nodded. "Yes, I realize that. But our circum-
stances are different. I can take no one with me from this
world into the other—at least not without raising more
than a few eyebrows—and it is in the other world that
such danger as might threaten me awaits. I will have to
be my own protector on this outing."

Besides, the medallion he wore about his neck was pro-
tection enough, he thought. He let his fingers stray down
the front of his tunic to the medallion's hard outline. Iron-
ically, Meeks had given him the medallion when he had
sold him the kingship—the key to the magic that was now
his. Only the bearer could be recognized as King. Only
the bearer could pass through the fairy mists from Land-
over to the worlds beyond and back again. And only the

Terry Brooks

bearer could summon and command the services of the
invincible armored champion known as the Paladin.

He traced the image of the knight-errant riding out from
the gates of Sterling Silver against the sunrise. The secret
of the Paladin was his alone. Even Meeks had never
understood the full extent of the medallion's power or its
connection with the Paladin.

He smiled tightly. Meeks had thought himself so clever.
He had used the medallion to pass over into Ben's world
and then let himself be trapped there. What the old wizard
wouldn't give to get that medallion back now!

The smile faded. But that would never happen, of
course. No one but the bearer could remove the medallion
once it was in place—and Ben never took it off. Meeks
was no longer any threat to him.

Yet somewhere at the back of his mind, almost buried
in the wall of determination that buttressed everything to
which he committed himself, a tiny fragment of doubt
tugged in warning.

"Well, it appears that there is nothing I can say on the
matter that will change your minds," Abemathy declared
to the room at large, drawing Ben's attention back again.
The dog peered at him over the rims of his glasses, pushed
the spectacles farther up on his nose, and assumed the
posture of a rejected prophet. "So be it. When will you
depart. High Lord?"

There was an awkward silence. Ben cleared his throat.
"The quicker I go, the quicker I can return."

Willow rose and stood before him. Her arms went about
his waist, drawing him close. They held each other for a
moment as the others watched. Ben could feel something
stir in the sylph's slender body—a kind of shiver that
whispered of unspoken fears.

"I imagine it would be best if we all got about our busi-
ness," Questor Thews said quietly.

No one replied. The silence was enough. Dawn was

i8

THE BLACK UNICORN

already stretching into midmoming and there was a shared
need to make use of the day ahead.

"Come back safe to me, Ben Holiday," Willow spoke
into his shoulder.

Abernathy heard the admonishment and glanced away.
"Come back safe to us all," he said.

Ben did not waste any time in setting out.

He retired directly to his bedroom after departing the
dining hall and packed the duffel he had brought with him
from the old world with the few possessions he felt he
would need. He changed back into the navy blue sweat
suit and Nikes he had worn over. The clothes and shoes
felt odd after Landover's apparel, but comfortable and
reassuringly familiar. He was going back at last, he
thought as he changed. He was finally going to do it.

He went from the bed chamber down a set of back stairs
and through a number of private halls to a small courtyard
just off the front gates where the others waited. The mom-
ing sun shone from a cloudless blue sky against the white
stone of the castle, flashing in blinding streaks where it
caught the silver trim. Warmth eased from the earth of
the island on which Sterling Silver sat and gave the day
a lazy feel. Ben breathed the freshness of the day and felt
the castle stir in response beneath his feet.

He locked hand to wrist firmly with the kobolds Bunion
and Parsnip, returned Abernathy's stiff, formal bow, em-
braced Questor, and kissed Willow with a passion usually
reserved for deepest night. There was not much talking.
All the talking had already been done. Abernathy again
warned against Meeks, and this time Questor cautioned
him as well.

"Be careful, High Lord," the wizard advised, one hand
gripping Ben's shoulder as if to hold him back. "Though
shut in a foreign world, my half-brother is not entirely
shorn of his magic. He is still a dangerous enemy. Watch
out for him."

Terry Brooks

Ben promised he would. He walked with them through
the gates, past the sentries stationed on day watch and
down to the shore's edge. His horse waited on the far
bank, a bay gelding he had named Jurisdiction. It was his
private joke that wherever he traveled on horseback, he
always had Jurisdiction. No one other than himself under-
stood what he was talking about.

A squad of mounted soldiers waited there as well. Ab-
ernathy had insisted that within the kingdom, at least,
Landover's King would not travel without adequate
protection.

"Ben." Willow came to him one final time, her hands
pressing something into his. "Take this with you."

He glanced down covertly. She had given him a
smooth, milky-colored stone intricately marked with
runes.

Willow closed his hands back about it quickly. "Keep
the stone hidden. It is a talisman often carried by my
people. If danger threatens, the stone will heat and turn
crimson. That way you will be warned."

She paused, and one hand reached up to stroke his
cheek softly. "Remember that I love you. I will always
love you."

He smiled reassuringly, but the words bothered him as
they always did. He didn't want her to love him—not so
completely, not so unconditionally. He was frightened of
what that meant. Annie had loved him like that—his wife,
Annie, now dead, apart of his old life, his old world, killed
in that car accident that sometimes seemed as if it had
happened a thousand years ago, but more often seemed
to have happened yesterday. He wasn't willing to risk
embracing that kind of love and losing it a second time.
He couldn't. The prospect terrified him.

A sudden twinge of sadness passed through him. It was
strange, but until he met Willow he had never dreamed
he might experience again those feelings he had shared
with Annie . . .

20

THE BLACK UNICORN

He gave Willow a brief kiss and shoved the stone deep
into his pocket. The touch of her hand lingered on his face
as he turned away.

Questor took him across in the lake skimmer and waited
until he was mounted. "Keep safe, High Lord," the wiz-
ard bade him.

Ben waved back to them all, took a final look at the
spires of Sterling Silver, wheeled Jurisdiction about, and
galloped away, with the squad of soldiers in tow.

Morning slipped into midday and midday into afternoon
as Ben rode westward toward the rim of the valley and
the mists that marked the boundaries of the fairy world.
Late-year colors carpeted the countryside through which
he passed in bright swatches. Meadows were thick with
grasses of muted greens, blues, and pinks, and with white
clover dotted crimson. Forest vegetation still retained
much of its new growth. Bonnie Blues, the trees that were
a staple of life within the valley with their offering of drink
and food, grew in clusters everywhere—half-grown pin
oaks colored a brilliant blue against the various shades of
forest green. Two of Landover's eight moons hung low
against the northern horizon, visible even in daylight—
one peach, the other a pale mauve. Harvesting was un-
derway in the fields of the small farms scattered about
the countryside. Winter's week-long stay was still a
month distant.

Ben drank in the smell, taste, sight, and feel of the
valley as if sampling a fine wine. Gone was the mistiness
and wintry gray blight that had marked the land when he
had first come over and the magic had been dying. The
magic was well now, and the land was whole. The valley
and her people were at peace.

Ben was not. He set a steady pace as he traveled, but
not a quick one. The need for haste he had felt earlier had
given way to a strange anxiety at the thought of actually
leaving. This would be his first trip out of Landover since
his arrival, and although the idea of leaving had not both-

Terry Brooks

21

ered him before, it was beginning to bother him now. A
nagging concern lurked about the edges and comers of
his determination—that once he left Landover he would
not be able to come back again.

It was ridiculous, of course, and he tried valiantly
to beat it down, seeking to convince himself that he
was experiencing the same misgivings any traveler en-
countered at the beginning of a trip away from home.
He tried arguing that he was a victim of his friends' re-
peated warnings and humming "Brigadoon" to lighten
the mood.

Nothing helped, however, and he finally gave it up.
Some things you simply had to put up with until they lost
their grip on you.

It was midaftemoon when his party reached the lower
slopes of the valley's western rim. He left the soldiers
there with the horses and instructions to set up camp and
wait for his return. He might be gone as long as a week,
he told them. If he wasn't back by then, they were to
return to Sterling Silver and advise Questor. The captain
of the squad gave him a funny look, but accepted the
orders without argument. He was used to his King going
off on strange errands without his guard—although usu-
ally he had one of the kobolds or the wizard in tow.

Ben waited for the captain's salute, then slung the duf-
fel bag over one shoulder and began the hike up the valley
slope.

It was nearing sunset when he reached the summit and
crossed toward the misted forest line that marked the
boundaries of the fairy wprid. Daytime's warmth was slip-
ping rapidly toward evening's cool, and his elongated
shadow trailed after him like a grotesque silhouette. There
was a deep, pervasive stillness in the air, and he felt a
sense of something hidden.

Ben's hand strayed to the medallion that hung about
his neck, and his fingers closed about it firmly. Questor
had told him what to expect. The fairy world was every-
where and nowhere at the same time, and all of its many

22

THE BLACK UNICORN

doorways to the worlds beyond were settled within. The
way back was whatever way he chose to go and it could
be found at whatever point he chose to enter. All he need
do was fix in his mind his destination and the medallion
would see him to the proper passageway.

That was the theory, at least. Questor had never had
the opportunity to test it.

The mist swirled and stirred within the great forest
trees, its trailers twisting like snakes. The mist had the
look of something alive. There's a cheerful thought, Ben
chided himself. He stopped before the mist, regarded it
warily, took a deep breath to steady himself, and started
in.

The mist closed about him instantly and the way back
became as uncertain as the way forward. He pushed on.
A moment later, a tunnel opened before him—the same
vast, empty, black hole that had brought him across from
the old world a year earlier. It burrowed through mist and
trees and disappeared into nothingness. There were
sounds in the tunnel, distant and uncertain, and shadows
dancing at its rim.

Ben's pace slowed. He was remembering what it had
been like when he had passed through this tunnel the last
time. The demon known as the Mark and his black,
winged carrier had come at Ben from out of nowhere; by
the time he had decided they were real, they had very
nearly finished him. Then he had practically stumbled
over that sleeping dragon . . .

Slender shapes darted at the fringes of the darkness
within the trees and mist. Fairies.

Ben quit remembering and forced himself to walk more
quickly. The fairies had helped him once, and he should
have felt comfortable among them. But he did not. He
felt alien and alone.

Faces materialized and vanished again in the mists,
sharp-eyed and angular with hair the consistency of wil-
low moss. Voices whispered, but the words were indis-

Terry Brooks 23

tinct. Ben was sweating. He hated being in the tunnel; he
wanted out of there. Ahead, the darkness pressed on.

Ben's fingers still clutched the medallion in a death grip,
and he thought suddenly of the Paladin.

Then the darkness before him brightened to dusky gray,
and the tunnel's length shortened to less than fifty yards.
Indefinable shapes swayed unevenly in the half-light, an
interlacing of spider webs and bent poles. Voices and
movement in the walls of the tunnel gave way to a sharp
hissing. A sudden wind rose and howled sharply.

Ben peered ahead into the gloom. The wind whipped
at him from the edges of the tunnel's end and carried the
hissing sound into his face with a wet, stinging rush.

And there was something else . . .

He stepped from the tunnel's shelter into a blinding
rainstorm and found himself face to face with Meeks.

a' •a

B.

•a

Ben Holiday froze. Lightning streaked from skies leaden
and packed with low-hanging clouds that shed their rain
in torrents. Thunder boomed, reverberating across the
emptiness, shaking the earth beneath with the force of its
passing. Massive oak trees rose all about like the staked
walls of some huge fortress, their trunks and leaf-bare
limbs glistening blackly. Shorter pine and fir bristled in
clumps through the gaps left by their taller sisters, and
the rugged slows of the Blue Ridge Mountains lifted
darkly agair   - , uyiny invisible horizon.

The speural figv "€ Meeks stood pinned against this
backdrop. He stood without moving, tall and bent and
old, white hair grizzled, craggy face as hard as iron. He
looked almost nothing of the man Ben remembered. That
man had been human; this man had the look of an enraged
animal. Gone were the pressed woolen slacks, corduroy
jacket, and loafers—the trappings of civilization that had
complemented an urbane, if gruff sales representative of
a highly respected department store. Those reassuringly
familiar business clothes had been replaced by robes of
gunmetal blue that billowed like sailcloth and seemed to
absorb the light. A high collar jutted from the shoulders
to frame a ghastly, pitted face twisted by fury that bor-
24

Terry Brooks

25

dered on madness. The empty sleeve of his right arm still
hung limp. The black leather glove that covered his left
hand was yet a claw. But each was more noticeable some-
how, as if each were a scar left bare for viewing.

Ben's throat constricted sharply. There was a tension
in the old man that was unmistakable—the tension of an
attacker poised to strike.

My God, he has been waiting for me, Ben thought in
shock. He knew I was coming!

Then Meeks started for him. Ben took one step back,
his right hand tightening frantically about the medallion.
Meeks was almost oh top of him. The wind shifted, and
the sounds of the storm echoed through the mountains
with renewed sharpness. The rain swept back against his
face, forcing him to blink.

When he looked again, Meeks was gone.

Ben stared. Meeks had disappeared as completely as
if he had been a ghost. Rain and darkness cloaked the
whole of the surrounding forestland in a shroud of gray
wetness. Ben glanced about hurriedly, disbelief twisting
his face. There was no sign of Meeks.

It took only a moment for Ben to regain his scattered
thoughts. He caught sight of the dim outUnt of a pathway
directly before him and started for H. He ri»ved"quickly
ahead through the trees, followff.g.^lte pathway's curve
as it wound down the mountainside and away from the
time passage that had brought him back to his old world
from Landover. And he was indeed back—of that much
he was certain. He was back in the Blue Ridge Mountains
of Virginia, deep in the George Washington National For-
est. This was the same pathway that had brought him into
Landover more than a year ago. If he followed it far
enough, it would take him down out of the mountains to
Skyline Drive, a tum-around with the black number 13
stenciled on a green sign, a weather shelter, and—most
important of all—a courtesy telephone.

He was soaked through in moments, but he kept mov-

26

THE BLACK UNICORN

ing steadily ahead, the duffel clutched tightly under one
arm. His mind worked rapidly. That wasn't Meeks he had
seen, hadn't even looked like the old Meeks, had been
barely recognizable, for Pete's sake! Besides, Meeks
wouldn't have just disappeared like that if it had really
been him, would he?

Doubt tugged sharply at his mind. Had he simply imag-
ined it all, then? Had it all been some sort of mirage?

Belatedly, he thought of the rune stone that Willow had
given him. Slowing, he fished through the pocket of his
jacket until he found the stone and brought it out into the
light. It was still milky in color and gave off no heat. That
meant no magic threatened him. But what did that tell
him about the phantom vision of Meeks?

He pushed ahead, slipping on the damp, water-soaked
earth, pine boughs slapping at his face and hands. He was
aware suddenly of how cold it was in these mountains,
the chill settling through him with an icy touch. He had
forgotten that late autumn could be unpleasant, even in
western Virginia. Illinois could be frigid. It might even be
snowing in Chicago . . .

He felt something catch in his throat. Shadows moved
through the mist and rain, darting and sliding from view.
Each time, he saw Meeks. Each time, he felt the wizard's
gloved hand reaching for him.

Just keep moving, he told himself. Just get yourself to
that phone.

It seemed to take much longer, but he reached the cour-
tesy phone some thirty minutes later, climbing down from
among the trees and crossing the parkway to the weather
shelter that housed it. He was soaked to the skin and
freezing, but he felt none of it. The entirety of his con-
centration was focused on the Plexiglas-enclosed black
and silver metal box.

Please let it be working, he prayed.

It was. Rain beat down on the shelter roof in a steady
thrum, and mist and gloom closed tightly about. He

Terry Brooks

thought he heard footsteps. He rummaged through his
duffel for the coins and credit card he still carried in his
wallet, rang information for the name of a limo service
out of Waynesboro, and called for a car to come up and
get him. It was all done in a matter of minutes.

He sat down then to wait on the wooden bench fastened
to the side of the shelter. He was surprised to discover
that his hands were shaking.

By the time the limo reached him and he was safely inside,
he had regained his composure enough to reason through
what had happened to him.

He no longer thought that he had imagined the ap-
pearance of Meeks. What he had seen had been real
enough. But it hadn't been Meeks he had seen; it had been
an image of Meeks. The image had been triggered by his
crossing back through the time passage. He had been
meant to see the image. It had been placed there at the
tunnel's end so that he would see it.

The question was, why?

He hunched down in the backseat of the limo as it sped
down the parkway toward Waynesboro and considered
the possibilities. He had to assume that Meeks was re-
sponsible. No other explanation made any sense. So what
was Meeks trying to accomplish? Was he trying to warn
Ben off—to chase him back through the time passage?
That didn't make any sense. Well, no, the warning part
did. Meeks was arrogant enough to want to let Ben know
that he was aware of his coming back. But there had to
be more to it than that. The image must have been placed
there to accomplish something else as well.

He had his answer almost immediately. The image had
not only warned Ben of Meeks; it had warned Meeks of
Ben! The image was a device to alert the wizard that Ben
had come back from Landover!

It made perfect sense. It was only reasonable to expect
that Meeks would employ some contrivance—magic or

28

THE BLACK UNICORN

otherwise—to warn him when Landover's failed Kings
crossed back into their old world with the medallion. Once
alerted, Meeks could then come after them . . .

Or, in this case, after him.

It was late afternoon when the driver deposited him at
the front steps of a Holiday Inn in downtown Waynes-
boro, the rain still falling, the daylight completely gone.
Ben told the fellow he was on vacation and had hiked the
parkway north from Staunton until the bad weather forced
him to abandon the plan and call for help. The driver
looked at him as if he were nuts. The weather had been
like this for better than a week, he snapped. Ben shrugged,
paid him in cash, and hurried inside.

On his way to the front desk, he paused long enough
to check the date on a newspaper someone had left lying
on a table in the lobby. It read Friday, December 9. It
was ten days more than a year since he had first walked
through the time passage from the Blue Ridge Mountains
of Virginia into Landover. Time in the two worlds did
indeed pass synchronously.

He booked a room for the night, sent out his clothes
to be cleaned and dried, took a steaming-hot shower to
warm himself, and ordered dinner sent in. While he waited
for the meal and his clothes, he called the airport for res-
ervations to Chicago. There was nothing until morning.
He would have to fly to Washington, then transfer to Chi-
cago. He booked the reservation, billed it to his credit
card, and hung up.

It was while he was eating dinner that it occurred to
him that using a credit card to pay for his air fare wasn't
exactly the smartest thing he could have done. He was
sitting on the edge of his bed in front of the TV, the tray
balanced on his lap, a Holiday Inn towel wrapped about
him, and the room temperature at about eighty. His
clothes were still out. Tom Brokaw was giving the news,
and it suddenly struck Ben that in a world of sophisticated
communications a computerized credit-card trace was a

Terry Brooks

29

relatively simple matter. If Meeks had gone to the trouble
of placing that image at the opening of the time passage
to warn of Ben's return, then he would almost certainly
take the matter a step further. He would know that Ben
would attempt a visit to Chicago. He would know that
Ben would probably elect to fly. A credit-card trace would
tell him the airline flight, date of travel, and destination.
He could be waiting when Ben stepped off the plane.
That possibility ruined what was left of the meal. Ben
put the tray aside, clicked off the TV, and began to con-
sider more carefully what he was up against. Abemathy
had been right. This was turning out to be more dangerous
than he had imagined. But he really didn't have any
choice. He had to go back to Chicago and see Miles long
enough to discover whether there was any truth to his
dream. Meeks would probably be waiting for him some-
where along the line. The trick was to avoid bumping into
him.

He permitted himself a brief smile. No problem.
He had his clothes back by nine o'clock and was asleep
by ten. He awoke early, had breakfast, shouldered the
duffel, and caught a cab to the airport. He flew to Wash-
ington on the previous night's reservation, then canceled
the balance of the ticket, walked over to another airline,
booked a seat to Chicago on standby under an assumed
name, paid for this ticket with cash, and was airbom be-
fore noon.

Let's see Meeks pick up on that one, he thought to
himself.

Eyes closed, he leaned back in his seat and reflected
on the strange set of circumstances that had taken him
away from his home in Chicago to Never-Never Land.
The memories made him shake his head reprovingly.
Maybe, like Peter Pan, he had just never grown up. He
had been a lawyer then, a damn good one, one from whom
great things were expected by those who were the movers
and shakers in the business. He was in practice with his

30 THE BLACK UNICORN

friend and longtime associate Miles Bennett, a shared
partnership in which the two complemented each other
like old shoes and work jeans—Ben the outspoken, au-
dacious trial lawyer. Miles the steady, conservative office
practitioner. Miles often deplored Ben's judgment in tak-
ing cases, but Ben always seemed to land on his feet de-
spite the heights from which he insisted on jumping. He
had won more courtroom battles than the average bear—
battles in which his corporate opponents had thought to
bury him under an avalanche of money-backed rhetoric
and paperwork, legal dodges, delays, and gamesmanship
of all sorts. He had so surprised Miles after his victory
in the Dodge City Express case that his partner had begun
referring to him as Doc Holiday, courtroom gunfighter.
He smiled. Those had been good, satisfying times.
But the good times faded when Annie died. The sat-
isfaction disappeared like quicksilver. His wife had died
in a car accident, three months pregnant, and he seemed
to lose everything after that. He turned reclusive, shun-
ning everyone but Miles. He had always been something
of a loner and he sometimes thought that the death of his
wife and baby had just reinforced what was always there.
He began to drift, the days running together, their events
merging indecipherably. He sensed that he was slowly
supping away from himself.

It was difficult to know what might have happened had
he not come across the bizarre offering in the Rosen's
Department Store Christmas Wishbook for the purchase
of the throne of the kingdom ofLandover. He had thought
it ridiculous at first—a fantasy kingdom with wizards and
witches, dragons and damsels, knights and knaves for sale
for one million dollars. Who would be foolish enough to
believe that? But the desperate dissatisfaction he was ex-
periencing in his life had led him to take the chance that
something in this impossible fantasy might be real. Any
risk was worth taking if it could bring him back to himself.

Terry Brooks

3i

He had shelved his doubts, packed his bags, and flown
to Rosen's New York office to see what was what.

He was required to undergo an interview in order to
complete the sale. The interviewer had been Meeks.

The familiar image of Meeks flashed instantly to
mind—the tall, old man with the whispered voice and
dead eyes, a veteran of wars Ben could only imagine. The
interview was the only time they had ever met face to
face. Meeks had found him an acceptable candidate to be
Landover's King—not to succeed as Ben had believed,
but to fail. Meeks had convinced him to make the pur-
chase. Meeks had charmed him like a snake its prey.

Meeks had also underestimated him.

He let his eyes slip open again and he whispered,
"That's right, Ben Holiday—he did underestimate you.
Now be sure that you don't underestimate him."

The plane touched down at Chicago O'Hare shortly
after three, and Ben caught a cab into the city. The driver
talked all the way in, mostly about sports: the Cubs' losing
season, the Bulls' playoff hopes with Jordan, the Black-
hawks' injury problems, the Bears at 13 and 1. The Chi-
cago Bears? Ben listened, replying intermittently, a small
voice at the back of his mind telling him there was some-
thing wrong with this conversation. He was nearly down-
town before he figured out what it was. It was the
language. He understood it, even though he had neither
heard it nor spoken it for more than a year. In Landover,
he heard, spoke, wrote, and thought Landoverian. The
magic made it possible for him to do so. Yet here he was,
back in his old world, back in good old Chicago, listening
to this cab driver speak the English language—or a rea-
sonable facsimile thereof—as it were the most natural
thing in the world.

Well, maybe that's exactly what it was, he thought and
smiled.

He had the cab driver deposit him at the Drake, un-
willing to return to his old penthouse apartment or to con-

THE BLACK UNICORN

tact any friends or acquaintances just yet. He was being
careful now. He was thinking about Meeks. He checked
in under an assumed name, paid cash in advance for one
night, and let the bellhop guide him to his room. He was
increasingly grateful for the fact that he had decided to
carry several thousand dollars in cash as a precaution
when he had crossed into Landover a year ago. The de-
cision had been almost an afterthought, but it was turning
out to be a sound one. The cash was saving him from
using the credit card.

Leaving the room with the cash and the billfold in one
pocket of his running suit, he took the elevator down, left
the hotel, and walked several blocks to Water Tower
Place. He shopped, bought a sport coat and slacks, dress
shirts, tie, socks and underwear, and a pair of dress loaf-
ers, paid cash, and headed back again. There was no point
in being conspicuous, and a running suit and Nikes in the
middle of the downtown Chicago business district was far
too conspicuous. He simply didn't look the type. Some-
times appearances were everything—particularly in the
short view. That was exactly why he hadn't brought any
of his friends with him. A talking dog, a pair of grinning
monkeys, a girl who became a tree, and a wizard whose
magic frequently got the better of him would hardly es-
cape notice on Michigan Avenue!

He regretted the superficial characterization of his
friends almost immediately. He was being needlessly flip.
Odd as they might be, they were genuine friends. They
had stood by him when it counted, when it was dangerous
to do so, and when their own lives were threatened. That
was a whole lot more than you could say for most friends.

He bowed his head against a sudden gust of wind,
frowning.

Besides, wasn't he as odd as they?

Wasn't he the Paladin?

He shoved the thought angrily to the darkest comers
of his mind and hurried to catch the crossing light.

Terry Brooks

33

He bought several newspapers and magazines in the
hotel lobby and retired to his room. He ordered room
service and killed time waiting for his dinner by skimming
the reading material to update himself on what had been
happening in the world during his absence. He stopped
long enough to catch an hour of world and local news,
and by then his meal had arrived. He continued reading
through the dinner hour. It was closing in on seven o'clock
by this time, and he decided to call Ed Samuelson.

There were two reasons for Ben's return to Chicago.
The first was to visit with Miles and discover whether the
dream about his friend had been accurate. The second
was to set his affairs in order permanently. He had already
decided that the first would have to wait until morning,
but there was no reason to put off the second. That meant
a call to Ed.

Ed Samuelson was his accountant, a senior partner in
the accountancy firm ofHaines, Samuelson & Roper, Inc.
Ben had entrusted management of his estate—an estate
that was considerable in size—to Ed before he had left
for Landover. Ed Samuelson was exactly the sort of per-
son one would hope for in an accountant—discreet, de-
pendable, and conscientious. There had been times when
he thought Ben clearly mad in his financial judgment, but
he respected the fact that it was Ben's money to do with
as he chose. One of those times had been when Ben de-
cided to purchase the throne of Landover. Ed had liq-
uidated the assets necessary to collect the one million
dollar purchase price and had been given power of attor-
ney to manage the balance of Ben's assets while Ben was
away. He had done all this without having the faintest
idea what Ben was about.

Ben had not told him then and he had no intention of
telling him now. But he knew Ed would accept that.

Calling Ed Samuelson was something of a risk. He had
to assume that Meeks knew Ed was his accountant and
would be contacted eventually. Anticipating that contact,

THE BLACK UNICORN

Meeks might have tapped the accountant's phone. That
was a somewhat paranoid assumption perhaps, but Meeks
was no one to fool with. Ben only hoped that, if Meeks
had decided on a phone tap, he had opted for one at Ed
Samuelson's office and not one at his home.

He called Ed, found him just finished with his evening
meal, and spent the next ten minutes convincing him that
it really was Ben Holiday who was calling. Once he got
that job done, he warned Ed that no one—and that meant
absolutely no one—was to know about this call. Ed was
to pretend that he had never received it. Ed asked the
same question he always asked when Ben made one of
his bizarre requests: Was Ben in some sort of trouble?
No, Ben assured him, he was not. It simply wasn't con-
venient for anyone to know he was in town at the moment.
He did plan on seeing Miles, he assured Ed. He did not
think he would have time to see much of anyone else.

Ed seemed satisfied. He listened patiently while Ben
explained what he wanted done. Ben promised he would
stop by the office tomorrow about noon to sign the nec-
essary papers if Ed could arrange to be there. Ed sighed
stoically and said that would be fine. Ben said good night
and placed the phone receiver back on its cradle.

Twenty minutes in the shower helped wash away the
tension and the growing weariness. He came back out of
the bathroom and crawled into his bed, a few of the mag-
azines and newspapers stacked next to him. He started
to read, gave it up, and let his thoughts drift and his eyes
close.

Moments later, he was asleep.

He dreamed that night of the Paladin.

He was alone at first, standing on a pine-sheltered bluff
looking down over Landover's misted valley. Blues and
greens mixed as sky and earth joined, and it was as if he
could reach out and touch them. He breathed, and the air

Terry Brooks

35

was fresh and chill. The clarity of the moment was
stunning.

Then shadows deepened and closed down about him
like night. Cries and whispers filtered through the pines.
He could feel the shape of the medallion pressing against
his palm as he clutched at it in anticipation. He had need
of it once more, he sensed, and was glad. The being he
kept trapped inside could be let loose again!

There was a darting movement to one side and a mon-
strous black shape surged forward. It was a unicorn, eyes
and breath of fire. But it changed almost instantly. It be-
came a devil. Then it changed again.

It was Meeks.

The wizard beckoned, a tall, stooped, menacing form,
face scaled over like a lizard's. He came for Ben, growing
in size with each step, changing now into something un-
recognizable. There was the smell of fear in Ben's nos-
trils, the smell of death.

But he was the Paladin, the knight-errant whose strayed
soul had found a home within his body, the King's cham-
pion who had never lost a battle, and nothing could stand
against him. He brought that other self to life with a fright-
ening rush of elation. Armor closed about him, and the
smell of fear and death gave way to the acrid smells of
iron, leather, and oil. He was no longer Ben Holiday, but
a creature of some other time and place whose memories
were all of battle, of combat and victory, of fighting and
dying. Wars raged in his mind, and there were glimpses
of struggling behemoths encased in iron, surging back and
forth against a haze of red: Metal clanged, and voices
huffed and grunted in fury. Bodies fell in death, torn and
broken.

He felt himself exhilarated!

Oh, God, he felt himself reborn!

The darkness broke against him, shadows reaching and
clawing, and he went to meet them in a rage. The white
charger he rode carried him forward like a steam engine

THE BLACK UNICORN

36

driven by fires he could not begin to control. The pines
slipped past him in a blur, and the ground disappeared.
Meeks became a wraith he could not touch. He raced
forward, flying out from the edge of the bluff into
nothingness.

The sense of exhilaration vanished. Somewhere in the
night, there was a frightening scream. He realized as he
fell that the scream was his own.

The dreams left him after that, but he slept poorly for the
remainder of the night anyway. He rose shortly after
dawn, showered, called room service for breakfast, ate,
dressed in the clothes he had bought yesterday, and
caught a cab out front of the hotel shortly after nine. He
took his duffel bag with him. He did not think he would
be returning.

The cab took him south on Michigan Avenue. It was
Saturday, but the streets were already beginning to clog
with Christmas shoppers anxious to beat the weekend
rush. Ben sat back in the relative seclusion of the cab and
ignored them. The joys of the approaching holiday were
the furthest thing from his mind.

Traces of last night's dream still whispered darkly to
him. He had been badly frightened by that dream and by
the truths that it contained.

The Paladin was a reality he had not fully come to grips
with. He had become the armored knight only once—and
then as much by chance as by intention. It had been nec-
essary to become the Paladin in order to survive, and he
had therefore done what was necessary. But the trans-
formation had been a frightening thing, a shedding of his
own skin, a crawling into someone else's—someone or
something. The thoughts of that other being were hard
and brutal, a warrior's thoughts, a gladiator's. There was
blood and death in those thoughts, an entire history of
survival that Ben could only begin to comprehend. It
frankly terrified him. He could not control what this other

Terry Brooks

37

thing was, he sensed—not entirely. He could only become
what it was and accept what that meant.

He was not sure he could ever do that again. He had
not tried and did not wish to try.

And yet a part of him did—just as in the dream. And
a part of him whispered that someday he must.

He had the cab take him to the offices of Holiday &
Bennett, Ltd. The offices were closed on Saturdays, but
he knew Miles Bennett would be there anyway. Miles was
always there on Saturdays, working until noon, catching
up on all the dictating and research that he hadn't gotten
to during the week, taking advantage of the absence of
those bothersome interruptions that seemed to dog him
during regular business hours.

Ben paid the cab driver to drop him at the end of the
block across the street from his destination, then stepped
quickly into the doorway of another building. Pedestrians
passed him by, oblivious to what he was about, caught
up in their own concerns. Traffic moved ahead at a rapid
crawl. There were cars parked on the street, but no one
seemed to be keeping watch in them.

"Doesn't hurt to be careful," he insisted softly.

He stepped back out of the doorway, crossed the street
with the light, moved up the block, and pushed through
the storm glass doors to the lobby of his building. He saw
nothing out of place, nothing odd.

He hurried to an open elevator, stepped inside,
punched the button to floor fifteen, and watched the doors
slide closed. The elevator started up. Just a few moments
more, he thought. And if Miles wasn't there for some
reason, he would simply track him down at his home.

But he hoped he wouldn't have to do that. He sensed
that he might not have the time. Maybe it was the dream,
maybe it was simply the circumstances of his being here—
but something definitely felt wrong.

The elevator slowed and stopped. The doors slid open,
and he stepped into the hallway beyond.

38

THE BLACK UNICORN

His breath caught sharply in his throat. Once again, he
was face to face with Meeks.

Questor Thews brushed at the screen of cobwebs that
hung across the narrow stone entry of the ruins of the
castle tower and pushed inside. He sneezed as dust
clogged his nostrils and muttered in distaste at the damp
and dark. He should have had the sense to bring a
torch . . .

A spark of fire flared next to him, and flames leaped
from a brand. Bunion passed the handle of the light to
Questor.

"I was just about to use the magic to do that for my-
self!" the wizard snapped irritably, but the kobold just
grinned.

They stood within the failing walls of Mirwouk, the
ancient fortress Questor had seen in his dream of the miss-
ing books of magic. They were far north of Sterling Silver,
high within the Melchor, the wind whipping about the
worn stone to howl down empty corridors, the chill set-
tling through stale air like winter's coming. It had taken
the wizard and the kobold the better part of three days
to get here, and their travel had been quick. The castle
had welcomed them with yawning gates and vacant win-
dows. Its rooms and halls stood abandoned.

Questor pushed ahead, searching for something that
looked familiar. The late afternoon was settling down
about them, and he had no wish to be wandering about
this dismal tomb after dark. He was a wizard and could
sense things hidden from other folk, and this place had
an evil smell about it.

He groped about for a time, then thought he recognized
the passageway he had entered. He followed its twist and
turn, eyes peering through the gloom. More cobwebs and
dust hindered his progress, and there were spiders the size
of rats and rats the size of dogs. They scurried and
crawled, and he had to watch for them at every step. It

Terry Brooks                                  39

was decidedly annoying work. He was tempted to use his
magic to turn the lot of them into dust bunnies and let the
wind sweep them away.

The passageway took a downward turn, and the shape
of its walls altered noticeably. Questor slowed, peering
at the stonework. Abruptly, he straightened.

"I recognize this!" he exclaimed in an agitated whis-
per. "This is the tunnel I saw in my dreams!"

Bunion took the torch from his hand without comment
and led the way down. Questor was too excited to argue
the matter and followed quickly after. The passage broad-
ened and cleared, free of webbing, dust, rodents, and
insects. There was a new smell to the stone, a kind of
sickly-fragrant musk. Bunion kept up a brisk pace, and
sometimes all that Questor could see before him was
the halo of the torch.

All was just as it had been in the dream!

The tunnel went on, angling deeper into the mountain
rock, a coil of hollowed corridors and curving stairs. Bun-
ion stayed in front, eyes sharp. Questor was practically
breathing down his neck.

Then the tunnel ended at a stone door marked with
scroll and runes. Questor was shaking with excitement by
now. He felt along the markings and his hands seemed to
know exactly where to go. He touched something and the
door swung open with a faint grating sound.

The room beyond was massive, its floor constructed of
granite blocks polished smooth. Questor led the way now,
following the vision inside his head, the memory of his
dream. He walked to the center of the chamber, Bunion
at his side, the sound of their footfalls a hollow echo.

They stopped before a piece of granite flooring on
which the sign of a unicorn had been carved.

Questor Thews stared. A unicorn? One hand tugged
uneasily at his chin. Something was wrong here. He did
not recall anything about a unicorn in his dream. There
had been a sign cut into the stone, but had the sign been

40 THE BLACK UNICORN

that of a unicorn? It seemed a rather large
coincidence ...

For just an instant, he considered turning about, walk-
ing directly back the way he had come, and abandoning
the entire project. A small voice inside whispered that he
should. There was danger hidden here; he could sense it,
feel it, and it frightened him.

But the lure of the missing books was too strong. He
reached down, and his fingers traced the ridges of the
creature's horn—again, almost of their own volition. The
block stirred and slid aside, fitting into a neatly con-
structed chute.

Questor Thews peered downward into the hole that was
left.

There was something there.

Nightfall draped the lake country in shadows and mist,
and the light of colored moons and silver stars was no
more than a faint glimmer as it reflected off the still sur-
face of the Irrylyn. Willow stood alone at the shoreline
of a tiny inlet ringed in cottonwood and cedar, the waters
of the lake lapping at her toes. She was naked, her clothes
laid carefully upon the grass behind her. A breeze blew
softly against her pale green skin, wove its careless way
through the waist-length emerald hair, curled and rib-
boned, and ruffled the fetlocks that ran the length other
calves and forearms. She shivered with the touch. She
was a creature of impossible beauty, half human, half
fairy, and she might have been a descendant of the sirens
of myth who had lured men to their doom on the rocks
of ancient seas.

Night birds called sharply from across the lake, their
cries echoing in the stillness. Willow's whistle called back
to them.

Her head lifted and she sniffed the air as an animal
might. Parsnip was waiting patiently for her in the camp-
site fifty yards back, the light of his cooking fire screened

Terry Brooks

41

by the trees. She had come alone to the Irrylyn to bathe
and to remember.

She stepped cautiously into the water, the lukewarm
liquid sending a delicious tingle through her body. It was
here that she had met Ben Holiday, that they had seen
each other for the first time, naked as they bathed,
stripped of all pretentions. It was here that she had known
that he was the one who was meant for her.

Her smile brightened as she thought back on how it had
been—the wonder of the moment. She had told him what
was to be, and while he had doubted it—still doubted it,
in truth—she had never faltered in her certainty. The fates
of her birth, told in the fairy way by the manner of en-
twining of the bedded flowers of her seeding, could never
lie.

Oh, but she loved the outlander Ben Holiday!

Her child's face beamed and then clouded. She missed
Ben. She worried for him. Something in the dream they
had shared troubled her in a way she could not explain.
There was a riddle behind these dreams that whispered
of danger.

She had said nothing of it to Ben because she had read
in his voice when he told her of his dream that he had
already decided he would go. She knew then that she
could not turn him from his purpose and should not try.
He understood the risks and accepted them. The urgency
of her concern paled beside the strength of his
determination.

Perhaps it was for that reason that in telling him of her
dream she had not .told him all. Something in her dream
was different than in his—or Questor Thews'. It was a
subtle thing and difficult to explain, but it was there
nevertheless.

She crouched in the shallows, emerald hair fanning out
across her shoulders like a shawl. Her finger traced pat-
terns on the still surface, and the memory of the dream
returned. The wrong feeling was in the texture of the

THE BLACK UNICORN

dream, she thought. It was in the way it played against
her mind. The visions had been vivid, the events clear.
But the telling was somehow false—as if it were all some-
thing that could happen in a dream, but not in waking. It
was as if the memory was a mask that hid a face beneath.

She ceased her tracing motion and rose. What face was
it, she wondered, that lay concealed beneath that mask?

The frown that clouded her face deepened, and she
wished suddenly she had not been so accepting of Ben's
decision. She wished she had argued his going after all or
that she had insisted that he take her along.

"No, he will be well," she whispered insistently.

Her eyes lifted skyward and she let the moonglow warm
her. Tomorrow she would seek the advice of her mother,
whose life was so close to that of the fairy creatures in
the mists. Her mother would know of the black unicorn
and the bridle of spun gold and would guide her; soon she
would be back again with Ben.

She stepped further out into the darkened lake, let the
waters close about her, and drifted at peace.

B' •B

Shadows

a. •a

The second appearance of Meeks did not elicit in Ben
Holiday the panic that the first had. He did not freeze;

he did not experience the same sense of confusion. He
was surprised, but not stunned. After all, he.had a better
idea of what to expect this time around. This was just
another apparition of the outcast wizard—tall, stooped,
cloaked in the robes ofgunmetal blue, white hair grizzled,
face craggy and sallow, black leather glove lifted like a
claw, but an apparition nevertheless.

Wasn't it?

Meeks started for him, and suddenly he wasn't so sure.
The pale blue eyes were alive with hatred, and the hard
features seemed to twist into something not quite human.
Meeks closed on him, gliding down the empty, fluores-
cent-lit corridor soundlessly, growing huge in the silence.
Ben stood his ground with'difficulty, one hand searching
out the reassuring bulk of the medallion beneath his shirt.
But what protection did the medallion offer him here? His
mind raced. The rune stone, he thought suddenly! The
stone would tell him if he was threatened! His free hand
rummaged frantically in his pants pocket, fumbling for the
stone as the robed figure loomed closer. Despite his re-
43

44

THE BLACK UNICORN

solve, Ben took a quick step backward. He could not find
the stone!

Meeks was directly in front of him, dark and menacing.
Ben flinched as the wizard blocked the light. . .

And then he looked up and found himself alone in the
deserted corridor, staring into empty space, listening to
the silence.

Meeks was gone—another substanceless apparition.

He had found the rune stone, nestled in the comer of
his pants pocket, and he pulled it into the light. It was
blood red and burned at the touch.

"Damn!" he muttered, angry and frightened both at
once.

He took a moment to gather his wits, scanning the hall-
way swiftly to be certain that he had missed nothing. Then
he straightened, finding himself in a sort of defensive half-
crouch, and stepped away from the elevator doors. Noth-
ing moved about him. It appeared he really was alone.

But what was the reason for this second vision? Was
this another warning? Was it a warning/row Meeks or to
Meeks?

What was going on?

He hesitated only a moment before turning sharply left
toward the glass doors that fronted the offices of Holiday
& Bennett, Ltd. Whatever was going on, he felt it wise
to keep moving. Meeks had to know that eventually he
would come to Miles. That didn't mean that Meeks was
there—or even anywhere close. The apparition might be
just another signal to warn him of Ben's coming. If Ben
were quick enough, he would be there and gone before
Meeks could do anything about it.

The lights in the office lobby were off. He pulled at the
handle on the entry doors and found them locked. That
was normal. Miles never unlocked the front doors or
turned on the lights when he worked alone. Ben had come
prepared for that. He pulled out his office key and inserted
it into the lock. The lock turned easily, and the door

Terry Brooks

45

opened. Ben stepped inside, pocketed the key, and let the
door close behind him.

A radio was playing softly in the silence—Willie Nel-
son, the kind of stuff Miles liked. Ben looked down the
inner hallway and saw a light shining out of Miles' office.
He grinned. The old boy was at home.

Maybe. A new wave of doubt and mistrust washed over
him, and the grin faded. Better safe than sorry, he cau-
tioned himself, worrying that old chestnut as if it were a
spell to cast out evil spirits. He shook his head. He wished
there was some way to be sure about Meeks . . .

He eased his way silently down the hall until he stood
before the lighted doorway. Miles Bennett sat alone at his
desk, hunched over his law books, a yellow pad crammed
with notes open beside him. He had come to work wearing
a coat and tie, but the knot in the tie had been pulled loose,
and the coat had been shed in favor of rolled-up sleeves
and an open collar. He glanced up as he sensed Ben's
presence, and his eyes widened.

"Holy Saint Pete!" He started up, then eased back
down again. "Doc—is that really you?"

Ben smiled. "It's me all right. How are you doing,
buddy?"

"How am I doing? How am I doing?" Miles was in-
credulous. "What the hell kind of question is that? You
go trouping off to Shangri-La or whatever, you're gone
better than a year, no one hears a word from you, then
one day back you come—right out of nowhere—and you
want to know how / am? Pretty damn cheeky. Doc!"

Ben nodded helplessly and groped for something to say.
Miles let him struggle with it a moment, then laughed and
pushed himself to his feet, a big, rumpled teddy bear in
business clothes.

"Well, come on in, Doc! Don't stand out there in the
hallway like the prodigal son returned—even if that's
what you are! Come on in, have a seat, tell me all about
it! Damn, I can't believe it's really you!"

THE BLACK UNICORN

He hastened around the desk, his big hand extended,
took Ben's, and pumped it firmly. "I'd just about given
up on you, you know that? Just about given up. I thought
something had happened to you for certain when I didn't
hear anything. You know how your mind works overtime
in this business anyway. I began imagining all sorts of
things. I even considered calling the police or someone,
but I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone my partner was
off chasing little people and dragons!"

He was laughing again, laughing so hard his eyes were
tearing, and Ben joined in. "They probably get calls like
that all the time."

"Sure, that's what makes Chicago the great little town
it is!" Miles wiped his eyes. He wore a rumpled blue shirt
and dress pants. He looked a little like a giant Smurf.
"Hey, Doc—it's good to see you."

"You, too. Miles." He glanced around. "Doesn't ap-
pear that anything has changed since I left."

"Naw, we keep the place a living shrine to your mem-
ory." Miles glanced around with him, then shrugged.
"Wouldn't know where to start anyway, the place is such
a monumental piece of art deco." He smiled, waited a
moment for Ben to say something, and, when Ben didn't,
cleared his throat nervously. "So, here you are, huh?
Care to tell me what happened out there in fairyland, Doc?
If it's not too painful to relate, that is. We don't have to
discuss it if you'd rather . . ."

"We can discuss it."

"No, we don't have to. Forget I asked. Forget the
whole business." Miles was insistent now, embarrassed.
"It's just such a surprise to have you come waltzing in
like this . . . Hey, look, I've got something for you! Been
saving this for when we got together again. Look, got it
right here in the drawer." He hastened back around be-
hind the desk and rummaged quickly through the bottom
drawer. "Yeah, here we go!"

Terry Brooks                                  47

He pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet, still sealed, and
plopped it on the desk. Two glasses followed.

Ben shook his head and smiled with pleasure. His fa-
vorite scotch. "It's been a long time, Miles," he admitted.

Miles broke the seal, uncorked the bottle, and poured
two fingers into each glass. He pushed one across the desk
to Ben, then lifted his own glass in salute. "To crime and
other forms of amusement," he said.

Ben touched glasses with him, and both drank. The
Glenlivet was smooth and warm going down. The two old
friends took seats across the desk. Willie Nelson contin-
ued to sing through the momentary silence.

"So you gonna tell me or what?" Miles asked finally,
changing his mind once more.

"I don't know."

"Why not? You don't have to be coy with me, you
know. You don't have to feel embarrassed if this thing
didn't turn out the way you expected."

Memories flooded Ben's thoughts. No, it surely hadn't
turned out the way he had expected. But that wasn't the
problem. The problem was in deciding how much he
should tell Miles. Landover wasn't something that could
be easily explained. It was sort of like the way it was when
you were a kid and your parents wanted to know about
Susie at the freshman sock hop.

It was like telling them that Santa Claus really did exist.

"Would it be enough if I told you that I found what I
was looking for?" he asked Miles after a moment's
thought.

Miles was silent for a moment. "Yeah, if that's the best
you can do," he replied finally. He hesitated. "Is that the
best you can do, Doc?"

Ben nodded. "It is just now."

"I see. Well, what about later? Can you do better later?
I'd hate to think that this was the end of it and I'd never
leam anything more. Because I don't think I could stand
that. You left here in search of dragons and damsels in

48

THE BLACK UNICORN

distress, and I told you you were crazy. You believed all
that hype about a kingdom where magic was real and
fairy-tale creatures lived, and I told you it was impossible.
See, Doc, I need to know which of us was right. I need
to know if dreams like yours are still possible. I have to
know."

Disappointment reflected in the roundish face. Ben felt
sorry for his old friend. Miles had been in on this business
from the beginning. He was the only one who knew that
Ben had spent a million dollars to purchase a fantasy king-
dom that sane men knew couldn't possibly exist. He was
the only one who knew that Ben had gone off in search
of that kingdom. He knew how the story started, but he
didn't know how it ended. And it was eating at him.

But there was more to consider here than Miles' dis-
comforting curiosity. There was his safety. Sometimes
knowledge was a dangerous thing. Ben still didn't know
how great a threat Meeks posed—to either of them. He
still didn't know how much truth there was to his dream.
Miles appeared to be well, but...

"Miles, I promise I'll tell you everything one day," he
answered, trying to sound reassuring. "I can't tell you
exactly when, but I promise you'll know. It's a difficult
thing to talk about—sort of the way it used to be about
Annie. I could never talk about her without. . . worrying
about what I said. You remember, don't you?"

Miles nodded. "I remember, Doc." He smiled. "Have
you made peace with her ghost finally?"

"I have. Finally. But it took a lot of time, and I went
through a lot of changes." He paused, remembering when
he had stood alone in the mists of the fairy world and
come face to face with the fears he had harbored deep
within himself that somehow he had failed his dead wife.
"I guess talking about where I've been and what I've
found there will take a little time and help as well. I still
have to work a few things through ..."

Terry Brooks

49

He trailed off, the glass of scotch twirling through his
fingers on the desk before him.

"It's all right. Doc," Miles said quickly, shrugging.
"It's enough just having you back again and knowing
you're all right. The rest will come later. I know that."

Ben stared at the scotch for a moment, then lifted his
eyes to Miles. "I'm only here for a short time, buddy. I
can't stay."

Miles looked uncertain, then forced a quick grin. "Hey,
what are you telling me? You've come back for some-
thing, haven't you? So what was it? You missed the Bulls'
nosedive last winter, the Cubs' el foldo this spring, the
marathon, the elections, all the rest of the vintage Chicago
season. You want to catch a Bears game? The monsters
of the midway are thirteen and one, you know. And they
still serve Bud and nachos at the food stands. What do
you say?"

Ben laughed in spite of himself. "I say it sounds pretty
good. But that's not what brought me back. I came back
because I was worried about you."

Miles stared at him. "What?"

"I was worried about you. Don't make that sound like
such an astounding event, damn it. I just wanted to be
sure you were all right."

Miles took a long pull on the scotch, then eased back
carefully in the padded desk chair. "Why wouldn't I be
all right?"

Ben shrugged, "I don't know." He started to continue,
then caught himself., "Oh, what the hell—you already
think I'm nuts, so what's a few more pecans in the fruit-
cake. I had this dream. I dreamed you were in real trouble
and you needed me. I didn't know what the trouble was,
only that it was my fault that you were in it. So I came
back to find out if the dream was true."

Miles studied him a moment the way a psychiatrist
might study a prize patient, then drained off the rest of

50

THE BLACK UNICORN

his scotch and tipped forward in the chair once more.
"You are nuts, Doc—you know that?"

"I know."

"Fact is, your conscience must be working overtime."

"You think so?"

"I do. You're just feeling guilty because you bailed out
on me in the middle of the pre-Christmas season court
rush, and I was left with all those damn cases! Well, I've
got news for you! I took care of those cases, and office
routine never skipped a beat!" He paused, then grinned.
"Well, maybe half a beat. Proud of me. Doc?'

"Yeah, sure. Miles." Ben frowned. "So there aren't
any problems at the office—nothing wrong with you,
nothing that needs me back here?"

Miles rose, picked up the Glenlivet, and poured them
each another finger. He was smiling broadly. "Doc, I hate
to tell you this, but things couldn't be better."

And right then and there, Ben Holiday began to smell
a rat.

Fifteen minutes later he was back on the streets. He had
visited with Miles just long enough to avoid giving the
impression that anything was seriously wrong. He had
stayed even when everything inside him was screaming
that he ought to run for his life.

Taxis were at a premium Saturday mornings, so he
caught a bus south to Ed Samuelson's office for his noon
meeting. He sat alone two seats from the back, clutched
the duffel to him like a child's security blanket, and tried
to shake the feeling that there were eyes everywhere
watching him. He sat hunched down in his suit and dress
coat and waited for the chill to steal from his body.

Think like a lawyer, he admonished himself! Reason it
through!

The dream had been a lie. Miles Bennett was not in
trouble and had no need of his assistance. Maybe the
dream had only been his sense of guilt at leaving his old

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5i

friend behind working overtime. Maybe it was only co-
incidence that Questor and Willow had experienced sim-
ilar dreams on the same night. He didn't think so.
Something had triggered those dreams—something or
someone.

Meeks.

But what was his enemy up to?

He left the bus at Madison and walked several doors
down to Ed Samuelson's building. The eyes followed after
him.

He met with his accountant and signed various powers-
of-attomey and trust instruments enabling management
of his affairs to continue in his absence for as long as
several years. He didn't anticipate being gone that long,
but you never knew. He shook Ed's hand, exchanged
good-byes, and was back out the door at 12:35 P.M.

This time he waited until he found a taxi. He had the
driver take him directly to the airport and caught a 1:30
P.M. flight on Delta to Washington. He was in the nation's
capital by 5:00 P.M. and an hour later caught the last flight
out that night on Allegheny to Waynesboro. He kept his
eyes open for Meeks the whole time. A man in a trench
coat kept looking at him on the flight from Chicago. An
old woman selling flowers stopped him in the main ter-
minal at National. A sailor with a duffel bumped him as
he turned away too quickly from the Allegheny ticket
counter. But there was no sign of Meeks.

He checked the rune stone twice on the flight from
Washington to Waynesboro. He checked it almost as an
afterthought the first time and reluctantly once after. Both
times it glowed blood red and burned at the touch.

He did not go any farther that night. He was desperate
to continue on—the need for haste was so strong he could
barely control it—but reason overcame his sense of ur-
gency. Or maybe it was fear. He did not relish venturing
into the Blue Ridge in the dark. It was too easy to become

THE BLACK UNICORN

lost or hurt. And it was likely that Meeks would be waiting
for him at the entrance to the time passage.

He slept poorly, rose at daybreak, dressed in the warm-
up suit and Nikes, ate something—he couldn't remember
later what it was—and called the limo service to pick him
up. He stood in the lobby with his duffel in hand and kept
an uneasy watch through the plate glass windows. After
a moment, he stepped outside. The day was cold and gray
and unfriendly; the fact that it was dry offered what little
comfort there was to be found. The air smelled bad and
tasted worse, and his eyes burned. Everything had an
alien look and feel. He checked the rune stone half-a-
dozen times. It still glowed bright red.

The limo arrived a short time later and sped him on his
way. By midmoming he was hiking back up into the for-
ested mountains of the George Washington National Park,
leaving Chicago, Washington, Waynesboro, Miles Ben-
nett, Ed Samuelson, and everything and everyone else in
this world in which he now felt himself a stranger and a
fugitive far behind.

He found the mists and oaks that marked the entrance
to the time passage without incident. There was no sign
of Meeks—not in the flesh, not as an apparition. The for-
est was still and empty; the way forward was clear.

Ben Holiday fairly ran to gain the tunnel's entrance.

He stopped running on the other side.

Sunshine streamed down out of lightly clouded skies
and warmed the earth with its touch. Brightly colored
meadows and fruit orchards spread down valley slopes
like a quilt of patchwork swatches. Flowers dotted the
landscape. Birds flew in dashes of rainbow silk. The
smells were clean and fresh.

Ben breathed deeply, chasing the spots that danced be-
fore his eyes, waiting for the strength that had been
sapped by his flight to return. Oh, yes, he had run. He
had flown! It frightened him that he had allowed himself

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53

to panic like that. He breathed, deep and slow, refusing
to look back again at the dark and misted forests that rose
like a wall behind him. He was safe now. He was home.

The words were a litany that soothed him. He let his
eyes lift skyward and pass down again across the length
and breadth of Landover, comforted by the unexpected
sense of familiarity he experienced. How strange that he
should feel this way, he marveled. His passing back was
like the passing from winter's slow death to spring's life.
Once he would never have believed he could feel this way.
Now it seemed the most logical thing in the world.

It was closing on midday. He walked down from the
valley's rim to the campsite where he had left his escort.
They were waiting for him and accepted his return without
surprise. The captain greeted him with a salute, brought
Jurisdiction around, got his men mounted, and they were
on their way. From a world of jet liners and limousines
to a world of walking boots and horses—Ben found him-
self smiling at how natural the transition seemed.

But the smile was a brief one. His thoughts returned
to the dreams that Questor, Willow, and he had shared
and the nagging certainty that something was very wrong
with those dreams. His had been an outright lie. Had those
of Questor and Willow been lies as well? His was tied in
some way to Meeks—he was almost certain of it. Were
those of Questor and Willow tied to Meeks as well? There
were too many questions and no answers in sight. He had
to get back to Sterling Silver quickly and find his friends.

He reached the castle before nightfall, pressing for a
quicker pace the entire way. He scrambled down from
his horse, gave the escort a hurried word of thanks, called
for the lake skimmer, and crossed quickly to his island
home. Silver spires and glistening white walls beamed
down at him, and the warmth of his home-mother reached
out to wrap him close. But the chill within him persisted.

Abemathy met him just inside the anteway, resplendent
in red silk tunic, breeches and stockings, white polished

54

THE BLACK UNICORN

boots and gloves, silver-rimmed glasses, and appointment
book. There was irritation in his voice. "You have re-
turned none too soon, High Lord. I have spent the entire
day smoothing over the ruffled feelings of certain mem-
bers of the judiciary council who came here expressly to
see you. A number of problems have arisen with next
week's meeting. The irrigation fields south of Waymark
have sprung a leak. Tomorrow the Lords of the Greens-
ward arrive, and we haven't even looked at the list of
concerns they sent us. Half-a-dozen other representatives
have been sitting about ..."

"Nice to see you again, too, Abernathy," Ben cut him
off in midsentence. "Are either Questor or Willow back
yet?"

"Uh, no, High Lord." Abernathy seemed at a mo-
mentary loss for words. He trailed along silently as Ben
moved past him toward the dining hall. "Did you have a
successful trip?" he asked finally.

"Not very. You're certain neither has returned?"

"Yes, High Lord, I am certain. You are the first one
back."

"Any messages from either?"

"No messages, High Lord." Abernathy crowded for-
ward. "Is something wrong?"

Ben did not slow. "No, everything is fine."

Abernathy looked uncertain. "Yes, well, that is good
to know.'' He hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat.
"About the judiciary council's representatives, High
Lord. . . ?"

Ben shook his head firmly. "Not today. I'll see them
tomorrow." He turned toward the dining hall and left Ab-
ernathy at the door. "Let me know the minute Questor
or Willow returns—no matter what I'm doing."

Abernathy pushed his glasses further up his long nose
and disappeared back down the passageway without
comment.

Ben ate a quick meal and climbed the stairs to the tower

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55

that held the Landsview. The Landsview was a part of
the magic of Sterling Silver, a device that gave him a quick
glimpse into the happenings of Landover by appearing to
allow him to fly the valley end to end. It was a circular
platform with a silver guard rail that looked out from the
tower through an opening in the wall that ran ceiling to
floor. A lectern fastened on the guard rail at its midpoint.
An aged parchment map of the kingdom was pinned to
the lectern.

Ben stepped up onto the platform, fastened both hands
firmly to the guard rail, fixed his eyes upon the map, and
willed himself northward. The castle disappeared about
him an instant later, and he was sailing through space with
only the silver railing and the lectern for support. He sped
far north to the mountains ofMelchor, swept across their
heights and down again. He sped south to the lake country
and Elderew, the home city of the people of the River
Master. He crisscrossed the forests and hills from one end
of the lake country to the other. He found neither Questor
Thews nor Willow.

An hour later, he gave it up. His body was drenched
with sweat from the effort, and his hands were cramped
from gripping the railing. He left the tower of the Lands-
view disappointed and weary.

He tried to soak the weariness and disappointment
away in the waters of a steaming bath, but could not come
entirely clean. Images ofMeeks haunted him. The wizard
had lured him back with that dream of Miles; Ben was
certain of it and was also certain that the wizard had some
plan in mind to gain revenge on him for Meeks' exile.
What Ben was not certain about was what part the dreams
of his friends played in all this—and what danger they
might be in right now because of it.

Night descended, and Ben retired to his study. He had
already decided to send out search parties for both his
missing friends by morning. Everything else would have
to wait until he solved the mystery of the dreams. He was

56 THE BLACK UNICORN

becoming increasingly convinced that something was ter-
ribly wrong and that he was running out of time to set it
right again.

Evening deepened. He was immersed in catching up on
the paperwork that had piled up during his absence when
the door to his study flew open, a sudden gust of wind
scattered the stacks of documents he had arranged care-
fully on the work table before him, and the gaunt figure
of Questor Thews stalked out of the darkness into the
light.

"I have found them, High Lord!" Questor exclaimed
with an elaborate flourish of one arm, a eanvass-wrapped
bundle clutched to his chest with the other. He crossed
to where Ben was working and deposited the bundle on
the table with a loud thump. "There!"

Ben stared. A rather bedraggled Bunion trudged
through the door behind him, clothes torn and muddied.
Abernathy appeared as well, nightshirt twisted and night-
cap askew. He shoved his glasses in place and blinked.

"It was all just exactly as the dream promised," Ques-
tor explained hurriedly, hands working at the canvass
wrapping. "Well, not quite as promised. There was the
matter of the demon imp hidden in the stonework. A nasty
surprise, I can tell you. But Bunion was its equal. Took
it by the throat and choked the life out of it. But the rest
was just as it was in the dream. We found the passages
in Mirwouk and followed them to the door. The door
opened, and the room beyond was covered with stone-
work. One stone had the special markings. It gave at the
touch, I reached down and ..."

"Questor, you found the missing books?" Ben asked
incredulously, cutting him short.

The wizard stopped, stared back at him in turn, and
frowned. "Of course I found the books, High Lord. What
do you think I have been telling you?" He looked put
upon. "Anyway, to continue, I was about to reach down
for them—I could see them in the shadows—when Bun-

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57

ion pulled me back. He saw the movement of the imp.
There was a terrific struggle between them . . . Ah, here
we are!"

The last fold of canvass fell back. A pair of massive,
aged books nestled amid the wrappings. Each book was
bound in a leather covering that was scrolled in runes and
drawings, the gilt that had once inscribed each marking
worn to bits and tracings. Each book had its comers and
bindings layered in tarnished brass, and huge locks held
the covers sealed.

Ben reached down to touch the cover of the top book,
but Questor quickly seized his hand. "A moment, High
Lord, please." The wizard pointed to the book's lock.
"Do you see what has happened to the catch?"

Ben peered closer. The catch was gone, the metal about
it seared as if by fire. He checked the catch on the second
book. It was still securely in place. Yes, there was no
doubt about it. Something had been done to the first book
to break the lock that sealed it. He looked back at
Questor.

"I have no idea, High Lord," the wizard answered the
unasked question. "I brought the books to you exactly
as I found them. I have not tampered with them; I have
not attempted to open them. I know from the markings
on the covers that they are the missing books of magic.
Beyond that, I know no more than you." He cleared his
throat officiously. "I ... thought it proper that you be
present when I opened them."

"You thought it proper, did you?" Abernathy growled,
hairy face shoving into view. He looked ridiculous in his
nightcap. "What you mean is you thought it safer\ You
wanted the power of the medallion close at hand in case
this magic proved to be too much for you!"

Questor stiffened. "I have significant magic of my own,
Abernathy, and I assure you that..."

"Never mind, Questor," Ben cut him short. "You did
the right thing. Can you open the books?"

58 THE BLACK UNICORN

Questor was rigid with indignation by now. "Of course
I can open the books! Here!"

He stepped forward, hands hovering over the first of
the aged tomes. Ben moved back, his own hands closing
on the medallion. There was no point in taking any
chances with this sort of ...

Questor touched the fastenings, and green fire spit
sharply from the metal. Everyone jumped back quickly.

"It would appear that you have underestimated the
danger of the situation once again!" Abemathy snapped.

Questor flushed, and his face tightened. His hands
came up sharply, sparked, then came alive with a fire of
their own—a brilliant crimson fire. He brought his fire
down slowly to the metal fastenings, then held it there as
it slowly devoured the green fire. Then he brushed his
hands together briskly, and both fires were gone.

He gave Abemathy a scornful look. "A rather insig-
nificant measure of danger, wouldn't you say?"

He reached again for the fastenings and pulled the metal
clasp free. Slowly he opened the book to the first page.
Aging yellow parchment stared back at him. There was
nothing there.

Ben, Abemathy, and Bunion pressed forward about
him, peering down through the shadows and half-light.
The page was still empty. Questor thumbed to the second
page. It was empty as well. He thumbed to the third.
Empty.

The fourth page was empty, too, but its center was
seared slightly as if held too close to a flame.

"I believe it was you who used the word insignificant,
wizard?" Abemathy goaded.

Questor did not reply. There was a stunned look on his
face. Slowly he began to leaf through the book, turning
one blank page after another, finding each sheet of yel-
lowed parchment empty, but increasingly seared. Finally
pages began to appear that were burned through entirely.

Terry Brooks                                  59

He thumbed impulsively to the very center of the book
and stopped.

"High Lord," he said softly.

Ben peered downward at the ruin that lay open before
him. A fire had burned the center of the book to ashes,
but it was as if the fire had somehow been ignited from
within.

High Lord and wizard stared at each other. "Keep
going," Ben urged.

Questor paged through the remainder of the book
quickly and found nothing. Each sheet of parchment was
just like the others—empty save for where the mysterious
fire had burned or seared it.

"I do not understand what this means, High Lord,"
Questor Thews admitted finally.

Abernathy started to comment, then changed his mind.
'' Perhaps the answers lie in the other book,'' he suggested
wearily.

Ben nodded for Questor to proceed. The wizard closed
the first book and set it aside, gloved his hands in the red
fire, brought them carefully down, and drew free the green
fire that protected the lock on the second book. It took
somewhat longer this time to complete the task, for the
lock was still intact. Then, the fires extinguished, he re-
leased the lock and cautiously opened the book.

The outline of a unicorn stared back at him. The unicorn
was drawn on parchment that was neither yellowed nor
seared, but pristine white. The unicorn was standing still,
its silhouette perfectly formed by dark lines. Questor
turned to the second page. There was a second unicorn,
this one in motion, but drawn the same way. The third
page revealed another unicorn, the fourth still another,
and so on. Questor leafed quickly through the entire book
and back again. Each page of the book appeared new.
Each page held a unicorn, each drawn in a different pose.

There were no writings or markings of any kind other
than the drawings of the unicorns.

6o THE BLACK UNICORN

"I still do not understand what this means." Questor
sighed, frustration etched into his lean face.

"It means these are not the books of magic you believed
them to be," Abemathy offered bluntly.

But Questor shook his head. "No, these are the books.
The dream said so, the markings on the bindings say so,
and they appear as the old stories described them. These
are the missing books, all right."

They were silent for a moment. Ben stared thoughtfully
at the books, then glanced about until his eyes found the
shadowy figure of Bunion peering from behind Questor.
The kobold grinned ominously.

Ben looked back again at the books. "What we have
here," he said finally, "is one book with unicorns drawn
on every page and another book with no unicorns drawn
anywhere, but a burned-out center. That has to mean
something, for Pete's sake! Questor, what about Willow's
dream of a black unicorn? Couldn't the unicorns here
have something to do with that?"

Questor considered the possibility for a moment. "I do
not see any possible connection, High Lord. The black
unicorn is essentially a myth. The unicorns drawn here
are not inked in black, but sketched deliberately in white.
See how the lines define the features?" He turned a few
pages of the second book to illustrate his point. "A black
unicorn would be shaded or marked in some way to in-
dicate its color..."

He trailed off, brows knitting tightly in thought. His
bony fingers traced the seared lock on the first book del-
icately. "Why has this lock been broken and the other
left intact?" he asked softly, speaking to no one in
particular.

"There have not been any unicorns in the valley since
its inception, according to the histories of the Kings of
Landover," Abemathy interjected suddenly. "But there
were unicorns once—a whole raft of them. There was a

Terry Brooks 61

legend about it, as a matter of fact. Now let me think . . .
Yes, I remember. Just wait here a moment, please."

He hurried from the room, nails clicking on the stone,
nightshirt trailing. He was back a few moments later, a
book of the royal histories of Landover cradled in his
arms. The book was very old and its covers worn.

"Yes, this is the one," the scribe announced. He placed
it next to the books of magic, thumbed through it quickly,
and stopped. "Yes, right here." He paused, reading. "It
happened hundreds of years ago—very close to the time
of the valley's creation. The fairies dispatched a large
gathering of unicorns into our valley from out of the mists.
They sent them here for a very particular reason. It seems
that they were concerned about a growing disbelief in the
magic in many of the outlying worlds—worlds such as
your own, High Lord—" The scribe extended him a dis-
approving look. "—and they wished to give some sign to
those worlds that the magic did indeed still exist." He
paused, frowning as he squinted at the aged writing. "I
think I have that right. It is difficult to read this clearly
because the language is very old."

"Perhaps it is your eyes that are old," Questor sug-
gested, none too kindly, and reached for the book.

Abemathy snatched it away irritably. "My eyes are
twice what yours are, wizard!" he snapped. He cleared
his throat and went on. "It appears, High Lord, that the
fairies sent the unicorns as proof to the disbelieving
worlds that the magic was still real. One unicorn was to
travel to each of these worlds out of Landover through
the time passages." He paused again, read some more,
then closed the book with a bang. "But, of course, that
never happened."

Ben frowned. "Why not?"

"Because all the unicorns disappeared, High Lord.
They were never seen again by anyone."

"Disappeared?"

62

THE BLACK UNICORN

"I remember that story," Questor declared. "Frankly,
it always struck me as a rather strange story."

Ben frowned some more. "So the fairies send a raft of
white unicorns into Landover and they all disappear. And
that's the last of the unicorns except for a black unicom
that may or may not be real and appears only occasionally
from God knows where. Except now we also have the
missing books of magic that contain nothing about magic
at all—just a lot of drawings of unicorns and some half-
bumed empty pages."

"One lock broken and one still sealed," Questor added.

"Nothing about Meeks," Ben mused.

"Nothing about changing dogs back into men," Ab-
ernathy huffed.

They stared at one another in silence. The books lay
open on the table before them—two of magic that didn't
seem very magical at all and one of history that told them
nothing historically useful. Ben's uneasiness grew. The
further they followed the threads of these dreams, the
more confused matters got. His dream had been a lie;

Questor's had been the truth. The source of their dreams
had been different. . .

Apparently.

But maybe not. He was not sure of anything just now.
It was growing late. The trip back had been a long one,
he was tired, and the fatigue dulled his thinking. There
wasn't enough time, and he didn't have enough energy to
reason it all through tonight. Tomorrow would be soon
enough. When morning came, they would search out Wil-
low; once they found her, they would pursue this matter
of the dreams until they understood exactly what was
going on.

"Lock up the books, Questor. We're going to bed,"
he declared.

There was muttered agreement from all quarters. Bun-
ion went off to the kitchen to clean up and eat. Abemathy
went with him, carrying the aged history. Questor

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63

scooped up the books of magic and carted them out
wordlessly.

Ben watched them go, left alone in the shadows and
half-light. He almost wished he had asked them to stay
while he forced himself to work on this puzzle a bit longer.

But that was foolish. It would all keep.

Reluctantly, he trudged off to sleep.

B" •B

apd Ni^htrpares

B. •B

Later, Ben Holiday would remember how ill-conceived
his advice to himself had been that night. He would re-
member the words clearly. It will all keep. Tomorrow will
be soon enough. He would remember those words as he
ate them. He would reflect bitterly on the undiscerning
reassurance he had allowed himself to take from them.

That was the beauty of hindsight, of course. It was al-
ways twenty-twenty.

The trouble began almost immediately. He retired di-
rectly to his bed chamber from the study, slipped on a
nightshirt, and crawled beneath the covers. He was ex-
hausted, but sleep would not come. He was keyed up from
the day's events, and the mystery of the dreams played
about like a cornered rat in his mind. He chased the rat,
but he couldn't catch it. It was a shadow that eluded him
effortlessly. He could see its outline, but could not grasp
its form.

Its eyes glowed crimson in the darkness.

He blinked and shoved himself up on his elbows. The
rune stone that Willow had given him shone fire red on
the nightstand where he had placed it. He blinked, aware
suddenly that he must have been nearly asleep when the
light had brought him back. The color of the stone meant
64

Terry Brooks

danger threatened—just as it must have threatened during
the whole of the trip back.
But where was the danger to be found, damn it?
He rose and walked about the room like a creature
stalking prey. There was nothing there. His clothes still
lay draped over the chair where he had thrown them; his
duffel still occupied its spot on the floor by the dressing
room. He stood in the center of the room for a moment
and let the warmth of the castle's life reach out to him.
Sterling Silver responded with a deep, inner glow that
wrapped him from head to foot. She was undisturbed.
He frowned. Perhaps the stone was mistaken.

It was distracting, in any case, so he covered it with a
towel and climbed back into his bed. He waited a moment,
closed his eyes, opened them again, closed them a second
time. The darkness cloaked him and did not tease. The
rat was gone. Questions and answers mixed and faded in
the night. He began to drift.

He might have dreamed for a time, then. There were
images of unicorns, some black, some white, and the slen-
der, timeless faces of the fairies. There were images of
his friends, both past and present, and of the dreams he
had envisioned for his kingdom and his life. They ran
through his subconscious, and their fluid motion lulled
him as the rolling of an endless sea.

Then a curious fire flared to sudden life within his mind,
disrupting the flow. Hands reached from out of nothing-
ness, and fingers clasped the chain about his neck—his
hands, his fingers. What were they doing?

And suddenly there was an image ofMeeks!

The image appeared from out of a black mist, the wizard
a tall, skeletal form cloaked in gunmetal blue with a face
as rough and hard as raw iron. He loomed over Ben as if
he were death come for its latest victim, one sleeve empty,
the other a black claw that reached down, down . . .

Ben jerked awake with a start, kicking back the bed-
clothes, sweeping blindly at the dark with one hand. He

66 THE BLACK UNICORN

blinked and squinted. A candle's flame lit one corner of
the room, a solitary pinprick of white-gold against a haze
of crimson fire given off by Willow's rune stone as it
blazed in frantic warning on the nightstand, the towel that
had covered it gone. Ben could feel the presence of the
danger it signaled. His breath came in sharp gasps, and
it was as if a giant hand pressed down upon his chest. He
fought to push it off, but his muscles would not obey. His
body seemed locked in place.

Something moved in the dark—something huge.

Ben tried to shout, but the sound was no more than a
whisper.

A figure materialized, scarlet light covering it like
blood. The figure stood there and, in a voice that sounded
of nails on slate, whispered, "We meet again, Mr.
Holiday."

It was Meeks.

Ben could not speak. He could only stare. It was as if
the image that had haunted him during his visit to the old
world had somehow managed to follow him back into this
one. Except that this was no image. He knew it instantly.
This was real!

Meeks smiled thinly. He was quite human in appear-
ance now, the predatory look vanished. "What—no
clever words of greeting, no brave admonishments, not
even a threat? How unlike you, Mr. Holiday. What seems
to be the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

The muscles of Ben's throat and face tightened as he
struggled to regain control of himself. He was paralyzed.
Meeks' flat, terrifying eyes bound him with cords he could
not break.

"Yes, yes, the will is there, isn't it, Mr. Holiday—but
the way is so dark! I know that feeling well! Remember
how it was when you left me last? Remember? You
taunted me in the vision crystal—my sole link with this
world—and then you shattered it! You broke my eyes,
Mr. Holiday, and you left me blind!" His voice had be-

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6?

come a hiss of fury. "Oh, yes, I know what it is like to
be paralyzed and alone!"

He moved forward a step farther and stopped, his
gaunt, craggy face bent against the crimson light of the
rune. He seemed impossibly huge. "You are a fool, play-
King—do you know that? You thought to play games with
me and you did not even bother to understand that it was
I who made all the rules. I am the games master, little
man, and you are but a novice! I made you King of this
land; I gave you all that it had to offer. You took that
from me as if you were entitled to it! You took it as if it
belonged to you!"

He was shaking with anger, the fingers of his gloved
hand knotted in front of his robes in a clawed fist. Ben
had never been so terrified in his life. He wanted to shrink
down into himself, to crawl beneath the covers once
more. He wanted to do anything—anything—that would
let him escape this terrible old man.

Then Meeks straightened, and abruptly the anger in his
face was replaced by cold indifference. He looked away.
"Well, it hardly matters now. The game is over. You have
lost, Mr. Holiday."

Sweat ran down Ben's rigid back. How could this have
possibly happened? Meeks had been trapped in the old
world; he had been denied any possible entrance into
Landover as long as Ben held the medallion!

"Would you like to know how I got here, Mr. Holi-
day?" Meeks seemed to have read his mind. The wizard
swung slowly back on him. "It was simple, really. I let
you bring me." He saw the look in Ben's eyes and
laughed. "Yes, Mr. Holiday—that's right. You were re-
sponsible for bringing me back again. What do you think
of that?"

He came forward until he was standing next to the bed.
His craggy face bent close. Ben could smell the stench of
him. "The dreams were mine, Mr. Holiday. I sent them
to you—to you, my half-brother, and the sylph. I sent

68 THE BLACK UNICORN

them. Not all of my powers were lost in the destruction
of the crystal! I could still reach you, Mr. Holiday! In
your sleep! I could bridge the two worlds through your
subconscious! My foolish half-brother forgot to think of
that in cautioning you against me. Dreams were the only
tools I needed to take control of you again. How vivid
the imagination can be! Did you find the dream I sent you
compelling, Mr. Holiday? Yes, of course you did. Your
dream was sent to bring you to me, and bring you to me
it did! I knew you would come if you thought your friend
Mr. Bennett needed you. I knew you must come. It was
simple after that, Mr. Holiday. The image at the end of
the time passage was magic that alerted me to your return
and let me trace your movements. It settled down within
you, and you were never free of me after!"

Ben's heart sank. He should have known that Meeks
would use the magic to keep track of him in some way.
He should have known the wizard would leave nothing
to chance. He had been a fool.

Meeks was smiling like the Cheshire Cat. "The second
image was an even more interesting ploy. It diverted you
from what I was really about. Oh, yes, I was there with
you, Mr. Holiday! I was behind you! While you were
preoccupied with my image, 7 slipped down into your
clothing, a thing no bigger than a tiny insect. I concealed
myself upon you and I let you carry me back into Land-
over. The medallion allows only your passage, Mr. Hol-
iday—yet if I am a part of you, it also allows mine!"

He was hidden within my clothing, Ben thought in de-
spair, with me all the way back, and I never realized it.
That was why the rune stone glowed in warning. The
threat was always there, but I couldn't see it!

"Ironic, isn't it, Mr. Holiday—you bringing me back
as you did?" The skin on Meeks' cheeks and forehead
was pulled back with the intensity of his smile, and his
face was like a skull. "I had to come back, you know. I
had to come back immediately because of your damnable,

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69

insistent meddling! Have you any idea of the trouble you
have caused me? No—no, of course not. You have no
idea. You do not even know what I am talking about. You
understand nothing! And, in your ignorance, you have
very nearly destroyed what it has taken years to create!
You have disrupted everything—you and your campaign
to become King ofLandover!"

He had worked himself into a rage again, and it was
only with great effort that he brought himself back under
control. Even so, the words spit from him like bile. "No
matter, Mr. Holiday, no matter. This all means nothing
to you, so there is no point in belaboring it. I have the
books now, and there is no further damage that you can
do. I have what I need. Your dream has given me mastery
of you, my half-brother's dream has given me mastery of
the books, and the sylph's dream will give me ..."

He stopped sharply, almost as if he had erred. There
was a curious uneasiness in the pale, hard eyes. He
blinked and it was gone. One hand brushed the empty air
in dismissal.' 'Everything. The dreams will give me every-
thing," he finished.

The medallion, Ben was thinking frantically. If I could
only manage to put my hands on the medallion . . .

Meeks laughed sharply. "There is undoubtedly much
that you wish to say to me, isn't there, Mr. Holiday? And
surely much that you wish to do!" The craggy face shoved
close before his own once more. The hard eyes bored into
him. "Well, I will give you your chance, play-King. I will
give you the opportunity that you were so quick to deny
me when you smashed the crystal and exiled me from my
home!"

One bony finger crooked before Ben's frozen eyes.
"But first I have something to show you. I have it right
here, looped safely about my neck." His hand dipped
downward into the robes. "Look closely, Mr. Holiday.
Do you see it?"

He withdrew his hand slowly. There was a chain

70

THE BLACK UNICORN

gripped tightly in the fingers. Ben's medallion hung fas-
tened at its end.

Meeks smiled in triumph as he saw the look of des-
peration that flooded Ben's eyes. "Yes, Mr. Holiday!
Yes, play-King! Yes, you poor fool! It is your precious
medallion! The key to Landover—and it belongs to me
now!" He dangled it slowly before Ben, letting it twirl to
catch the mixed light of blazing rune stone and candle's
flame. His eyes narrowed. "Do you wish to know what
happened to separate you from the medallion? You gave
it to me in a dream I sent you, Mr. Holiday. You took
the medallion off and passed it to me. You gave the med-
allion to me willingly. I could not take it by force, but you
gave it to me!"

Meeks was like a giant that threatened to crush Ben—
tall, dark, looming out of the shadows. His breath hissed.
"I think there is nothing I can tell you that you do not
already know, is there, Mr. Holiday?"

He made a quick gesture with his hand, and the invisible
chains that held Ben paralyzed dropped away. He could
move again and speak. Yet he did neither. He simply
waited.

"Reach down within your nightshirt, Mr. Holiday," the
wizard whspered.

Ben did as he was told. His fingers closed on a med-
allion fastened to the end of a chain. Slowly he withdrew
it. The medallion was the same shape and size as the one
he had once worn—the one Meeks now possessed. But
the engraving on the face was changed. Gone was the
Paladin, Sterling Silver, and the rising sun. Gone was the
polished silver sheen. This medallion was tarnished black
as soot and embossed with the robed figure of Meeks.

Ben stared at the medallion in horror, touched it dis-
believingly, then let it drop from his fingers as if it had
burned him.

Meeks nodded in satisfaction. "I own you, Mr. Holi-
day. You are mine to do with as I choose. I could simply

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7i

destroy you, of course—but I won't. That would be too
easy an end for you after all the trouble you have caused
me!" He paused, the smile returning—hard, ironic. "In-
stead, Mr. Holiday, I think I will set you free."

He moved back a few steps, waiting. Ben hesitated,
then rose from the bed, his mind working frantically to
find a way out of this nightmare. There were no weapons
close at hand. Meeks stood between him and the bedroom
door.

He took a step forward.

"Oh, one thing more." Meeks' voice stopped him as
surely as if he had run into a wall of stone. The hard,
old face was a mass of gullies and ridges worn by time.
"You are free—but you will have to leave the castle.
Now. You see, Mr. Holiday, you do not belong here any-
more. You are no longer King. You are, in fact, no
longer even yourself."

One hand lifted. There was a brief sweep of light and
Ben's nightshirt was gone. He was dressed in laborer's
clothing—rough woolen pants and tunic, a woolen cloak,
and worn boots. There was dirt on him and the smell of
animals.

Meeks studied him dispassionately. "One of the com-
mon folk, Mr. Holiday—that is who you will be from this
day forward. Work hard and you may find a way to ad-
vance yourself. There is opportunity in this land even for
such as you. You will not be King again, of course. But
you may find some other suitable occupation. I hope.so.
I would hate to think of you as destitute. I would be most
distressed if you^were to suffer inconvenience. Life is a
long time, you know."

His gaze shifted suddenly to Willow's rune stone. "By
the way, you will not be needing that any more, will you?"
His hand lifted, and the rune stone flew from the night-
stand into his gloved palm. His fingers closed, and the
stone shattered into dust, its red glow winking out
abruptly.

THE BLACK UNICORN

He looked back again at Ben, his smile cold and hard.
"Now where were we? Oh, yes—we were discussing the
matter of your future. I can assure you that I will monitor
it with great interest. The medallion with which I have
supplied you will tell me all I need to know. Be careful
you do not try to remove that medallion. A certain magic
protects against such foolishness—a magic that would
shorten your life rather considerably if it were challenged.
And I do not want you to die, Mr. Holiday—not for a
long, long time."

Ben stared at the other man in disbelief. What sort of
game was this? He measured quickly the distance to the
bedroom door. He could move and talk again; he was free
of whatever it was that had paralyzed him. He had to try
to escape.

Then he saw Meeks watching him, studying him as a
cat might a cornered mouse, and fear gave way to anger
and shame. "This won't work, Meeks," he said quietly,
forcing the edge from his voice. "No one will accept

this."

"No?" Meeks kept the smile steady. "And why is that,

Mr. Holiday?"

Ben took a deep breath and a couple of steps forward
for good measure. "Because these old clothes you've
slapped on me won't fool anyone! And medallion or no
medallion, I'm still me and you're still you!"

Meeks arched his eyebrows quizzically. "Are you cer-
tain of that, Mr. Holiday? Are you quite sure?"

There was a tug of doubt at the back of Ben's mind,
but he kept it from his eyes. He glanced sideways at the
floor-length mirror to catch a glimpse of himself and was
relieved to find that physically, at least, he was still the
same person he had always been.

But Meeks seemed so certain. Had the wizard changed
him in some way that he couldn't see?

"This won't work," he repeated, edging closer to the
door as he spoke, trying to figure out what it was that

Terry Brooks                                  73

Meeks knew that he didn't—because there most certainly
was something . . .

Meeks' laughter was sharp and acrid. "Why don't we
see what works and what doesn't, Mr. Holiday!"

The gloved hand swept up, the fingers extended, and
green fire burst from the tips. Ben sprang forward with a
lunge, tumbling past the dark form of the wizard, rolling
wildly to dodge the fire, and scrambling back to his feet.
He reached the closed door in a rush and had his fingers
on the handle when the magic caught up with him. He
tried to scream, but couldn't. Shadows wrapped him,
smothered him, and the sleep that wouldn't come earlier
couldn't now be kept away.

Ben Holiday shuddered helplessly and dropped slowly
into blackness.

B"

•B

B.

.B

Ben came awake again in shadows and half-light, eyes
squinting through a swirl of images that rocked like the
flotsam and jetsam an ocean's waters tossed against a
beachhead. He lay on a pallet of some sort, the touch of
its leather padding cool and smooth against his face. His
first thought was that he was still alive. His second was
to wonder why.

He blinked, waiting for the images to stop moving and
take definite shape. The memory of what had happened
to him recalled itself with painful intensity. He could feel
again the anger, frustration, and despair. Meeks had re-
turned to Landover. Meeks had caught him unprepared,
smashed the rune stone given him by Willow, stripped
him of his clothing, turned the dark magic on him until
consciousness was gone, and . . .

Oh, my God!

His fingers groped down the front of his tunic, reached
inside, and withdrew the medallion that hung from its
chain about his neck. Frantically, he held it up to the
twilight, the warnings already whispering urgently in his
mind, the certainty of what he would find already taking
shape in his thoughts. The carved metal face of the med-
allion seemed to shimmer. For an instant, he thought he

74

Terry Brooks                                  75

saw the familiar figure of the Paladin riding out of Sterling
Silver against the rising sun. Then the Paladin, the castle,
and the sun were gone, and there was only the cloaked
form of Meeks, black against a surface tarnished with
disuse.

Ben swallowed against the dryness he felt in his throat,
his worst fears realized. Meeks had stolen the medallion
of the Kings of Landover.

A sense of desperation flooded through him, and he
tried to push himself to his feet. He was successful for a
moment, a small rush of adrenaline giving him renewed
strength. He stood, the swirl of images steadying enough
that he could recognize something of his surroundings.
He was still within Sterling Silver. He recognized the
room as a sitting chamber situated at the front of the cas-
tle, a room reserved for waiting guests. He recognized the
bench on which he had been lying, with its rust-colored
leather and carved wooden feet. He knew where he was,
but he didn't know why—just as he didn't know why he
was still alive . . .

Then his strength gave out again, his legs buckled,and
he crumpled back onto the bench. Wood scraped and
leather creaked, the sounds alerting someone who waited
without. The door opened inward. Gimlet eyes glittered
from out of a monkey face to which large ears were
appended.

It was Bunion!

Bunion stepped into view and peered down at him.

Ben had never been so happy to see anyone in his entire
life. He would have hugged the little kobold if he could
have found the strength to do so. As it was, he simply lay
there, grinning foolishly and trying to make his mouth
work. Bunion helped him back onto the bench and waited
for him to get the words out.

"Find Questor," he managed finally. He swallowed
again against the dryness, the inside of his mouth like

76 THE BLACK UNICORN

chalk. "Bring him. Don't let anyone know what you're
doing. And be careful. Meeks is here in the castle!"

Bunion stared at him a moment longer, an almost puz-
zled look on his gnarled face, then turned and slipped from
the room wordlessly. Ben lay back again, exhausted.
Good old Bunion. He didn't know what the kobold was
doing there—or even what he was doing there, for that
matter—but it was exactly the piece of good fortune he
needed. If he could find Questor quickly enough, he could
rally the guard and put an end to any threat Meeks might
pose. Meeks was a powerful wizard, but he was no match
for so many. Ben would regain the stolen medallion, and
Meeks would regret the day he ever even thought about
sneaking back into Landover!

He closed his eyes momentarily, marshaling what inner
resources he could, then pushed himself upright once
more. His eyes swept the room. It was empty. Candlelight
from a wall bracket and a table dish chased the shadows.
Light from without crept through the crack beneath the
closed door. He stood, bracing the backs of his legs
against the bench for support. He was still dressed in the
peasant garb with which Meeks had clothed him. His
hands were black with grime. Cute trick, Ben thought—
but it won't work. I'm still me.

He took a dozen deep breaths, his vision steadying, his
strength rebuilding. He could feel the warmth of the castle
reaching out from the flooring through his battered work
boots. He could feel the vibrancy of her life. There was
an urgency to her touch that was disturbing. She seemed
to sense the danger he was in.

Don't worry; it's going to be all right, he reassured her
silently.

Footsteps approached and the door opened. Questor
Thews stood there with Bunion. He hesitated, then en-
tered the room wordlessly. The kobold followed, closing
the door behind them.

"Questor, thank God you're here!" Ben blurted out.

Terry Brooks                                  77

He started forward, hands reaching out in greeting. "We
have to act quickly. Meeks is back—here, now, some-
where in the castle. I don't know how he managed it, but
he stole the medallion. We have to alert the guard and
find him before ..."

He came to an abrupt stop half-a-dozen feet from his
friend, his words trailing off into silence. The wizard's
hands were still at his sides—not extended to receive his
own. The owlish face was hard, and the bushy eyebrows
furrowed.

Questor Thews was looking at Ben as if he had never
seen his King before in his life.
Ben stiffened. "Questor, what's the matter?"
The wizard continued to stare at him. "Who are you? "

"Who am I? What do you mean, who am I? It's me,
Ben!"

"Ben? You call yourself Ben?"
"Of course, I call myself Ben! What else would I call
myself? That's my name, isn't it?"
"Apparently you believe so."

"Questor, what are you talking about? I believe so be-
cause it is so!"

Questor Thews frowned. The lines about his brows fur-
rowed even more deeply. "You are Ben Holiday? You are
Landover's High Lord?"

Ben stared back at him speechlessly. The disbelief in
the other's voice was unmistakable. "You don't recog-
nize me, do you?" he ventured.

The wizard shook his head. "I do not."

Ben felt a sharp sinking sensation in the pit of his stom-
ach. "Look, it's just the clothes and the dirt, for Pete's
sake! Look at me! Meeks did this—changed the clothes,
messed me up a bit. But it's still me!"

"And you are Ben Holiday?"

"Yes, damn it!"

Questor studied him a moment, then took a deep
breath. "You may believe yourself to be Ben Holiday.

78

THE BLACK UNICORN

You may even believe yourself to be High King of Land-
over. But you are not. I know because I have just come
from the King—and he was not you! You are an intruder
in this castle. You are a spy and possibly even worse.
You have entered uninvited, you have listened in on con-
versations that were private, you have attacked the High
Lord in his bedchamber, and now you are claiming to be
someone you clearly are not. If the choice were mine, I
would have you imprisoned at once! It is only because
the High Lord has ordered your release that you are
free now. I suggest you go quickly. Seek help for your
affliction, whatever it is, and stay far, far away from

here!"

Ben was stunned. He could not think of what to do.
He heard himself telling Meeks, "Medallion or no med-
allion, I'm still me and you're still you!" He heard Meeks
reply, "Are you certain of that?"

What had been done to him?

He turned quickly to Bunion, searching for some hint
of recognition in the kobold's sharp eyes. There was none.
He rushed past them both to a mirror that hung upon the
wall next to the doorway. He peered through the half-
light at his image reflected in the glass. It was his face!
He was exactly the same as he had always been! Why
couldn't Questor and Bunion see that?

"Listen to me!" He wheeled on them, frantic. "Meeks
has come back from the old world, stolen the medallion,
and somehow disguised from everyone but myself who I
am! I look the same to me, but not to you!"

Questor folded his arms across his chest. "You look
different to everyone but yourself?"

It sounded so ridiculous that for a moment Ben just
stared at him. "Yes," he replied finally. "And he has
made himself appear as me! Somehow he has stolen my
identity. I didn't attack him in his bedchamber! He at-
tacked me in mine!" He came forward a step, eyes darting
from one face to the other. "He sent the dreams, don't

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79

you see? He arranged all of this! I don't know why, but
he did! This is part of his revenge for what we did to him!''

There was irritation in Questor's eyes, indifference in
Bunion's. Ben felt his grip on the situation slipping. "You
can't let him do this, damn it! You can't let him get away
with this!" His mind raced. "Look, if I'm not who I say
I am, how do I know all that I do? How do I know about
the dreams—mine of Miles Bennett, yours of the missing
books of magic. Willow's of the black unicorn! For God's
sake, what about Willow? Someone has to warn her! Lis-
ten, damn it! How do I know about the books you brought
in last night—the ones with the unicorns? I know about
those. I know about the medallion, about . . . Ask me
something! Go on, ask me anything! Test me!"

Questor shook his head solemnly. "I do not have time
for these games, whoever-you-are. You know what you
know because you are a spy and learned these things by
spying. You listened to our conversations and you
adapted them to your own purposes. You forget that you
already confessed all this to the High Lord when he caught
you sneaking about his bedchamber. You admitted every-
thing when pressed. You are fortunate you were not dis-
patched by the guard when you attempted to flee. You
are fortunate you ..."

"I did not flee anything!" Ben shouted in fury. He tried
to reach out to Questor, but Bunion interceded at once
and kept him away. "Listen to me! I am Ben Holiday! I
am High Lord ofLandover! I..."

The doors opened and guards appeared, alarmed by the
frenzy in his vojce. Questor beckoned, and they seized
hold of his arms.

"Don't do this!" he screamed. "Give me a
chance ..."

"You have been given that chance!" Questor Thews
interjected coldly. "Take advantage of it and leave!"

Ben was dragged from the room struggling, still scream-
ing his identity, still protesting what had been done to him,

8o

THE BLACK UNICORN

while his mind spun with anger and frustration. He caught
a glimpse of a tall, dark-robed figure standing in the dis-
tance, watching. Meeks! He screamed louder, trying to
break free. One of the guards cuffed him and he saw stars.
His head drooped and his voice trailed away. He had to
do something! But what? What?

The robed figure disappeared. Questor and Bunion
were left behind. Ben was dragged through the entry to
the castle gates and beyond the walls. The bridge he had
rebuilt after he had assumed the throne was bright with
torchlight. He was dragged across it. When he reached
the far side, he was thrown to the ground.

"Good night, your Majesty," one of the guards

mocked.

"Come visit again soon," said another.

They walked away laughing. "Next time we'll have his
ears," one said.

Ben lay upon the ground momentarily, head spinning.
Slowly he pushed himself upright and looked back across
the bridge at the castle lights. He stared at the towers and
battlements as they glistened silver in the light of Lan-
dover's eight moons and listened to the fading sound of
voices and the heavy thud of the gates being closed.

Then all was silent..

He still could not believe that this was happening to

him.

"Mother!" Willow whispered, and there was excitement
and longing in her voice.

Moonlight draped the great forests of the lake country
in a mix of rainbow colors, its cool brightness a beacon
against the shadows. Parsnip was encamped somewhere
far back within those shadows, patiently awaiting her re-
turn. Elderew lay distant, the city of the River Master
wrapped in silence, her inhabitants asleep. Elderew was
Willow's home and the River Master was her father, but

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81

it was neither her home nor her father that she had come
to see this night.

It was the wood nymph who danced before her like a
vision out of fairy.

Willow knelt at the edge of a clearing surrounded by
aging pines and watched the magic unfold. Her mother
spun and leaped through the night's stillness, light and
ephemeral, born of air and blown on the wind. She was
a tiny thing, little more than a wisp of life. White gauze
clothed her, transparent and weightless, and the pale
green skin of her child's body glimmered beneath the cov-
ering. Waist-length silver hair rippled and shimmered with
each movement she made, a trailer of white fire against
the night's dark. Music that she alone could hear swept
her on.

Willow watched in rapture. Her mother was a wild
thing, so wild that she could not live among humans, even
the once-fairy people of the lake country. She had bonded
briefly to Willow's father, but that had been long ago.
They had bonded once only, her father nearly driven mad
with need for the wood nymph he could not have, and
then her mother had disappeared back into the forests
again. She had never come back. Willow had been born
of that brief union, her father's constant reminder of the
fairy being he forever wanted and could never have. His
impossible longing aroused in him both love and hate. His
feelings for Willow had always been ambivalent.

Willow understood. She was a sylph, an elemental. She
was the child of both her parents, her constant water
sprite father and her mercurial wood nymph mother. Her
father's domesticity gave her stability, but she was im-
bued with her mother's wildness as well. She was a crea-
ture of contradictions. Amorphous, she was both flesh
and plant. She was human in the greater part of the moon's
cycle and plant briefly in the cycle's apex—a single night
each twenty-day. Ben had been shocked to see her trans-
formation that first night. She had changed from human

82

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to tree in this very clearing, feeding on the energy im-
planted hy her mother in the earth where she danced. Ben
had been shocked, but she was what she was, and he had
come to accept that. One day he would even love her for
it, she believed. It was not so with her father. His love
was conditional and always would be. He was still a cap-
tive of the insatiable need her mother aroused in him.
Willow only seemed to emphasize the weight of the chains

that bound him.

So Willow had not come to her father in her effort to
understand the dream of the black unicorn. She had come
instead to her mother.

Her mother spun closer, whirling and twisting with
grace and strength that defied understanding. Although
wild and captive in her own way to desires she could not
resist, her mother loved her nevertheless—without con-
dition, without measure. She came when Willow needed
her, the bond that linked them so strong that they could
often sense each other's thoughts. They spoke now in the
silence of their minds, trading images of love and want.
The bonding grew stronger, an entwining that expanded
thoughts into words . . .

"Mother," Willow whispered a second time.

She felt herself dream. Her mother danced, and she saw
in the balletic, frenzied movements the vision that had
brought her. The black unicorn appeared once more, a
creature of exquisite, terrible beauty. It stood before her
in the dark wood of which she had first dreamed, slender
shape shimmering in moonlight and shadows, in the man-
ner of a wraith. Willow shook to see it so. One moment
it was a creature of fairy, the next a demon of Abaddon.
Its spiraled hom flared and its hooves pawed the forest
earth. Head lowered, it feinted with a quick rush, then
backed cautiously away. It seemed trapped with

indecision.

What bothers it so? Willow wondered in surprise.
She looked down suddenly and the answer lay cradled

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83

in her hands. She was holding again the bridle of spun
gold. It was the bridle that kept the unicorn at bay; she
knew it instinctively. She caressed it and felt the weave
and draw of the threads run smooth against the touch of
her fingers. A strange rush of emotions coursed through
her. Such power the bridle offered! It could make the
unicorn hers, she sensed. There were no unicorns left in
all the world, none but in fairy, where she might never
go again, none but this one only, and it might be hers
if she wished it. All she need do was to stretch out her
hand . . .

But, no, she cautioned abruptly, if she were to touch
this creature for even the briefest instant, she would be
lost to herself. She knew that; she had always known that.
She must take the bridle to Ben because it belonged to
him . . .

And then the unicorn's head lifted, all beauty and grace.
The dark face was perfectly symmetrical, the long mane
blown like silk on a whisper of wind. There was fear in
its eyes, fear of something other than the sylph and her
bridle of spun gold, fear of something beyond her com-
prehension. Willow was paralyzed with the horror of it.
The eyes of the black unicorn threatened to engulf her.
The dream closed about. She blinked rapidly to break the
spell and caught for just an instant something more than
fear in the creature's eyes. She saw an unmistakable plea
for help.

Her hands lifted, almost of their own volition, and she
held the bridle before her like a talisman.

The black unicorn, snorted, an indelicate, frightened
sound, and the shadows of the wood seemed to shimmer
in response. Abruptly, the dream faded into vapor and
the unicorn was gone. Willow's mother danced alone
again in the pine-sheltered clearing. The wood nymph
spun one final time, a bit of moonlight against the dark,
slowed in her pirouette, and flitted soundlessly down to
where her daughter knelt.

84

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Willow sank back upon her heels in exhaustion, the
strength drained from her by the effort she had given over
to the dream. "Oh, Mother," she murmured and clasped
the slender, pale green hands. "What have I been
shown?" Then she smiled gently and there were tears in
her eyes and on her cheeks. "But there is no purpose in
asking you, is there? You know no more of this than I.
You dance only what you feel, not what you know."

Her mother's delicate features changed in a barely per-
ceptible manner—a lowering of her eyes, a slight twisting
of her mouth. She understood, but could not help. Her
dance was a conduit to knowledge, but not its source. The
magic worked that way with elementals.

"Mother." Willow clasped the pale hands more tightly,
drawing strength from their touch. "I must know the rea-
son for these dreams of the unicorn and the bridle of gold.
I must know why I am being shown something that both
lures and frightens me as this does. Which vision am I to
believe?"

The small hands tightened back on her own, and her
mother answered in a brief, birdlike sound that echoed of
the forest night.

Willow's slender form bent close, and something like
a chill made her shiver. "There is one in the lake country
who can help me understand?" she asked softly. "There
is one who might know?" Her face grew intense.
"Mother, I must go to him! Tonight!"

Again her mother responded, quick, eerie. She rose and
spun swiftly across the clearing and back again. Her hands
beckoned frantically. Tomorrow, they said. Tonight is
taken. It is your time.

Willow's face lifted. "Yes, Mother," she whispered
obediently.

She understood. She might wish it otherwise—and in-
deed had done so more than once before—but she could
not deny the fact of it. The twenty-day cycle was at its
end; the change was upon her. The need was already so

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85

strong that she could barely control herself. She shivered
again. She must hurry.

She thought suddenly of Ben and wished he were there
with her.

She stood up and walked to the clearing's center. Her
arms lifted skyward as if to draw in the colored moonlight.
A radiance enveloped her, and she could feel the essence
of her mother emanating from the earth upon which she
had danced. She began to feed.

"Stay close to me, Mother," she pleaded as her body
shimmered. Her feet arched and split into roots that
snaked downward into the dark earth, her hands and arms
lengthened into branches, and the transformation began.

Moments later it was finished. Willow had disappeared.
She had become the tree whose namesake she bore and
would stay that way until dawn.

Her mother sank down next to her, a child's ghost
slipped from the shadows. She sat motionless for a time.
Then her pale, slender arms wrapped about the roughened
trunk that harnessed her daughter's life and held it tight.

Dawn was approaching. Landover's moons were fading
away, one after the other, and night's shadows were giv-
ing ground before a broadening golden hue that edged its
way slowly out of the eastern horizon.

Questor Thews stalked the halls of Sterling Silver, a
skeletal, ragtag figure in his gray robes with the colored
sashes, looking for all the world as if he had lost his best
friend. He rounded a comer near the front entry hall and
bumped up against Abemathy.

"Taking an early constitutional?" the scribe inquired
archly.

Questor grunted and the furrows lining his forehead
deepened. "I find I cannot sleep, and I do not for the life
of me know why that is. There is reason enough to be
tired, heaven knows."

Abemathy's shaggy face revealed nothing of what he

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THE BLACK UNICORN

thought of that. He shrugged and turned to walk next to
the wizard. "I understand someone was caught breaking
into the High Lord's bedchamber this evening—someone
who claimed to be the King."

Questor grunted a second time. "A madman. He was
lucky to be released. But the High Lord ordered it. 'Put
him across to the mainland,' he said. I would not have
been so generous about the matter had the decision been
mine, I assure you."

They walked a bit further. "Odd that the High Lord
simply released him," Abemathy remarked finally. His
nose twitched. "He usually finds better uses for his

enemies."

"Hmmmmmm." Questor didn't seem to hear. He was
shaking his head at something. "It bothers me that the
man knew so much about the dreams. He knew of the
books of magic, of the High Lord's visit back, of the uni-
corn . . ." He trailed off momentarily. "He seemed to
know everything. He seemed so sure of himself."

Neither spoke for a time. Questor led the way up a
stairwell to a walk overlooking the outer parapets at the
front of the castle. Below, the bridge which connected the
island to the mainland stretched out across the lake,
misted and empty. Questor peered through the fading
gloom to the far shore, scanning the water's edge. His
owlish face tightened like a drawn knot.

"The stranger appears to be gone," he said finally.

Abemathy glanced at him curiously. "Did you expect
anything else?" he asked.

He waited in vain for an answer to his question. Questor
continued to stare out across the lake and said nothing.

a' •a

a. •a

The new day did not find Ben Holiday standing about the
gates of Sterling Silver with his nose pressed up against
the timbers as might have been expected. It found him
hiking his way south into the lake country. He walked
quickly and purposefully. By the time the sun had crested
the rim of the valley east above the mists and tree line,
he was already half-a-dozen miles into his journey and
determined to complete at least a dozen more before the
day was finished.

The decision to leave had not been an easy one. It had
taken him a long time to make it. He had sat out there in
the dark and the chill, staring back at the lights of the
castle and wondering what had hit him, so stunned he
didn't even move for the first half hour; he just sat there.
His emotions ran the gamut from shock to fear to anger
and back again. It was like a bad dream from which you
are certain you will escape—even after the time for es-
cape is long past. He recounted the events of the night
over and over again in his mind, trying to construct some
rational explanation for their being, to discover some pur-
pose to their order. He failed. It all came down to the
same thing—Meeks was in and he was out.

It was with a sense of desperation that he finally ac-
87

88

THE BLACK UNICORN

knowledged that what had happened to him was for real.
He had given up a life and a world that were familiar and
safe to come into Landover; he had risked losing every-
thing he had on the chance that he would find something
better. Obstacles had confronted him at every turn, but
he had overcome them. He had gained in reality what
most found only in dreams. Now, just when he had begun
to feel comfortable with what he had, just when it seemed
the worst was past, everything he had struggled so hard
to find had been snatched away from him, and he was
faced with the distinct possibility that he would end up
losing it all.

It wasn't possible. It wasn't fair.
But it was a fact, and he hadn't been a successful trial
lawyer for all those years in the old world by avoiding the
reality of facts. So he choked down his desperation, got
over being too stunned to move, swept away the anger
and the fear, and forced himself to deal with his situation.
His repeated replays of what had happened to him failed
to yield the information he might have wished. Meeks had
tricked him into returning to the old world, and he had
carried the wizard back with him into Landover. Meeks
had done that by sending him a false dream about Miles.
But Meeks had also sent the dreams of the missing books
of magic and the black unicorn to Questor Thews and
Willow. Why had he done that? There had to be a reason.
The dreams were all tied together in some way; Ben was
certain of it. He was certain as well that something had
forced Meeks to choose this particular time to return to
Landover. His diatribe in the bedchamber had made that
clear. In some way Ben had messed up his plans—and it
was more than simply the thwarting of the wizard's sale
of the throne of Landover to others or the exiling of the
wizard from his home world. It was something else—
something of far greater importance to Meeks. The wiz-
ard's anger at Ben was fueled by events and circum-

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89

stances that Ben hadn't yet uncovered. They had
compelled Meeks to return—almost out of desperation.

But Ben had no idea why.

He did know that, despite what should have been ad-
equate provocation, Meeks hadn't killed him when he
could have. That was puzzling. Clearly Meeks hated him
enough to want him to suffer awhile as an outcast, but
wasn't it a bit risky letting him wander around loose?
Sooner or later someone was going to see through the
deception and recognize the truth of things. Meeks could
not assume his identity and Ben remain a stranger to
everyone indefinitely. There had to be some way to
counter the magic of that vile amulet Meeks had stuck
him with, and he would surely search it out eventually.
On the other hand, maybe what he accomplished in the
long run didn't matter. Perhaps time was something he
didn't have. Maybe the game would be overfor him before
he understood all the rules.

The possibility terrified him. It meant he had to act
quickly if he didn't want to risk losing the chance of acting
at all. But what should he do? He had stared back across
the lake at the dark shape of the castle and reasoned it
through. He was wasting his time here where he was a
stranger to everyone—even to his closest friends. If nei-
ther Questor nor Bunion recognized him, there was little
chance anyone else at Sterling Silver would. Meeks was
King of Landover for the moment; he would have to con-
cede that much. It grated on him like sand rubbed on raw
flesh, but there was nothing to be done about it. Meeks
was Ben—and Ben himself was some fellow who had
slipped uninvited into'the castle and tried to cause trouble.
If he attempted to break in a second time, he would un-
doubtedly wind up in worse shape than he was in now.

Maybe Meeks was hoping for that. Maybe he was ex-
pecting it. Ben did not want to chance it.

Besides, there were better alternatives to choose from.
Admittedly he did not know exactly what Meeks was

90 THE BLACK UNICORN

about, but he knew enough to know how to cause the
wizard problems if he could act fast enough. Meeks had
sent three dreams, and two of them had already served
their purposes. Meeks had regained entry into Landover
through Ben, and he had used Questor to bring him the
missing books of magic. Make no mistake, Ben admon-
ished himself—Meeks had those books by now as surely
as the sun would rise in the east. That left only the third
dream to be satisfied—the dream sent to Willow of the
black unicorn. Meeks was looking for something from that
third dream as well; he had let a hint of it slip in his anger.
He was looking for the golden bridle that would harness
the black unicorn and he fully expected Willow to bring
it to him. And why shouldn't she, after all? The dream
had warned her that the unicorn was a threat to her, that
the bridle was the only thing that would protect her, and
that she must bring the bridle to Ben. That was exactly
what she would think she was doing, of course, once she
found the bridle—except that it would be Meeks disguised
as Ben who would be waiting to greet her. But if Ben
could reach the sylph first, he could prevent that from
happening. He could warn Willow, and perhaps the two
of them could discover the importance of the bridle and
the unicorn to the wizard and throw a monkey wrench
into his plans.

So off Ben went, heading south, the difficult decision
made. It meant forgoing his responsibilities as King of
Landover and conceding those responsibilities to Meeks.
It meant abandoning the problems of the judiciary council,
the irrigation fields south of Waymark, the always-
impatient Lords of the Greensward, the tax levy, and all
the others who still waited for an audience with Landov-
er's High Lord. Meeks could act in his place with im-
punity in the days ahead—or fail to act, as the case might
be. It meant abandoning Sterling Silver and leaving his
friends, Questor, Abemathy, and the kobolds. He felt like
a traitor and a coward going this way. A part of him de-

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9i

manded that he stay and fight. But Willow came first. He
had to find her and warn her. Once that was accom-
plished, he could turn his attention to exposing Meeks
and setting things right.

Unfortunately, finding Willow would not be easy. He
was traveling down into the lake country because that was
where Willow had said she would go to begin her search
for the unicorn and the golden bridle. But Willow had been
gone almost a week, and that search might have taken her
anywhere by now. Ben would appear a stranger to every-
one, so he could not trade on his position as Landover's
King to demand help. He might be ignored totally or not
even be allowed into the lake country. If that happened,
he was in trouble.

On the other hand, it was difficult to imagine being in
worse trouble than he was in already.

He walked all that day, feeling better about himself as
he went, for no better reason than the fact that he was
doing something positive and not simply sitting around.
He wound his way southward out of the lightly forested
hill country around his island home into the more densely
grown woods that comprised the domain of the River
Master. The hills smoothed to grasslands, then thickened
to woods damp with moisture and heavy with shadow.
Lakes began to dot the countryside, some no larger than
marshy ponds, some so vast they stretched away into
mist. Trees canopied and closed about, and the smell of
damp permeated the failing light. A stillness settled down
about the land as dusk neared, then began to fill slowly
with night sounds.

Ben found a clearing by a stream feeding down out of
the distant hills and made his camp. It was a short project.
He had no blankets or food, so he had to content himself
with the leaves and branches from a stand ofBonnie Blues
and the spring water. The fare was filling, but hardly sat-
isfying. He kept thinking that something was moving in

THE BLACK UNICORN

the shadows, watching him. Had the lake country people
discovered him? But no one showed. He was quite alone.

Being so alone eroded his confidence. He was all but
helpless when you got right down to it. He had lost his
castle, his knights, his identity, his authority, his title, and
his friends. Worst of all, he had lost the medallion. With-
out the medallion, he did not have the protection of
the Paladin. He was left with only himself to rely upon,
and that was precious little against the dangers posed by
Landover's denizens and their mercurial forms of magic.
He had been lucky to survive his arrival in Landover
when he had enjoyed the benefit of the medallion's pro-
tection. What was he to do now without it?

He stared off into the dark, finding the answers as elu-
sive as the night's shadows. What distressed him most
was the fact that he had lost the medallion to Meeks. He
could not figure out for the life of him how that could have
happened. No one was supposed to be able to take the
medallion from him. That meant he must have given it
over willingly. But how had Meeks compelled him to do
something so stupid?

He finished his meager dinner and was still brooding
over the turn of events that had brought him to this sorry
state when he saw the cat.

The cat was sitting at the edge of the clearing, perhaps
a dozen feet or so away, watching him. Ben had no idea
how long the cat had been there. He hadn't seen it un-
til now, but it was keeping perfectly still, so it might
have been occupying that same spot for some time. The
cat's eyes gleamed emerald in the moonlight. Its coat was
silver-gray except for black paws, face, and tail. It was
a slender, delicate thing—seemingly out of place in the
forest wild. It had the look of a strayed house pet.

"Hello, cat," Ben ventured with a wry smile.

"Hello, yourself," the cat replied.

Ben stared, certain that he must not have heard cor-

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93

rectly. Had the cat spoken? He straightened. "Did you
say something?" he asked cautiously.

The cat's gleaming eyes blinked once and fixed on him,
but the cat said nothing. Ben waited a few moments, then
leaned back again on his elbows. It wasn't as if it were
surprising to imagine that the cat might have said some-
thing, he told himself. After all, the dragon Strabo spoke;

and if a dragon could speak, why not a cat?

"Too bad you can't talk," he muttered, thinking it
would be nice to share his misery with someone.

The night brought a chill with it, and he shivered briefly
in the rough work clothes. He wished he had a blanket
or a fire to help ward off the damp; or better, that he were
back in his own bed at the castle.

He glanced over again at the cat. The cat hadn't moved.
It simply sat there, staring back at him. Ben frowned. The
cat's steady gaze was a bit unnerving. What was a cat
doing out here in the woods alone like this anyway? Didn't
it have a home? The emerald eyes gleamed brightly. They
were sharp and insistent. Ben shifted his own gaze to the
shadowed woods. He wondered again how he was going
to find Willow. He would need help from the River Master
and he hadn't the foggiest idea as to how he would con-
vince that being of his true identity. His fingers brushed
the tarnished medallion that hung about his neck, tracing
the outline of Meeks. The medallion certainly wouldn't
be of any help.

"Maybe the River Master's magic will help him rec-
ognize me," he thought aloud.

"I wouldn't count on'it, if I were you," someone
replied.

He started and looked quickly in the direction of the
speaker. There was no one there but the cat.

Ben's eyes narrowed. "I heard you that time!" he
snapped, irritated enough that he didn't care how foolish
he sounded. "You can speak, can't you?"

94

THE BLACK UNICORN

The cat blinked and answered. "I can when it pleases
me."

Ben fought to regain his composure. "I see. Well, you
might at least have the courtesy to announce the fact in-
stead of playing games with people."

"Courtesy has nothing to do with the matter, High Lord
Ben Holiday. Playing games is a way of life with cats. We
tease, we taunt, and we do exactly as we please, not as
others would have us do. Playing games is an integral part
of our personae. Those who wish to have any sort of re-
lationship with us must expect as much. They must un-
derstand that participation in our games is necessary if
they wish communication on any level."

Ben stared at the cat. "How do you know who I am?"
he asked finally.

"Who else would you be but who you are?" the cat
replied.

Ben had to stop and think that one through a minute.
"Well, no one," he said finally. "But how is it that you
can recognize me when no one else can? Don't I look like
someone else to you?"

The cat lifted one dainty paw and washed it lovingly.
"Who you look like counts for little with me," the cat
said. "Appearances are deceiving, and who you look like
might not be who you really are. I never rely on appear-
ances. Cats can appear as they choose. Cats are masters
of deception and masters of an art cannot be deceived by
anyone. I see you for who you really are, not who you
appear to be. I have no idea if how you appear just now
is how you really are."

"Well, it isn't."

"Whatever you say. I do know that however you might
appear, you are in any case Ben Holiday, High Lord of
Landover."

Ben was silent a moment, trying to decide just what it
was he was dealing with here, wondering where on earth
this creature had come from.

Terry Brooks                                  95

"So you know who I am in spite of the magic that dis-
guises me?" he concluded. "The magic doesn't fool
you?"

The cat studied him a moment, then cocked its head,
reflecting. "The magic wouldn't fool you either, if you
didn't let it."

Ben frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Much and little. Deception is mostly a game we play
with ourselves."

The conversation was turning a bit oblique. Ben sat
back wearily. "Who are you, Mr. Cat?" he asked.

The cat stood up and came forward a few feet, then sat
back down again, prim and sleek. "I am a great many
things, my dear High Lord. I am what you see and what
you don't. I am real and imagined. I am something from
the life you have known and something from dreams of
life you have not yet enjoyed. I am quite an anomaly,
really."

"Very insightful," Ben grunted. "Could you be a bit
more precise, perhaps?"

The cat blinked. "Certainly. Watch this."

The cat shimmered suddenly in the dark, glowing as if
radioactive, and the sleek body seemed to alter shape.
Ben squinted until his eyes closed, then looked again. The
cat had grown. It was four times the size it had been, and
it was no longer just a cat. It had assumed a slightly human
face beneath cat's ears, whiskers, nose and fur, and its
paws had become fingers. It swished its tail expectantly
as it stared at him.

Ben started half-a-dozen questions and gave up. "You
must be a fairy creature," he said finally.

The cat grinned—an almost-human grin. "Exactly so!
Very well reasoned, High Lord!"

"Thank you so much. Would you mind awfully telling
me what sort of fairy creature you are?"

"What sort? Well, um . . . hmmmmm. I am a prism
cat."

THE BLACK UNICORN

96

"And what is that?"

The grin disappeared. "Oh, I don't think I can explain
it—not even if I wanted to, which I really don't. It
wouldn't help you to know anyway, High Lord. You
wouldn't understand, being human. I will tell you this. I
am a very old and very rare sort of cat. I am but one of
just a few still remaining. We were always a select breed
and did not propagate the species in the manner of com-
mon animals. It is that way with fairy creatures—you
have been told this, haven't you? No? Well, it is that way.
Prism cats are rare. We must spread ourselves quite thin
to accomplish our purposes."

"And what purpose is it that you are trying to accom-
plish here?" Ben asked, still trying to make some sense
out of all the verbiage.

The cat flicked its tail idly. "That depends."

"Depends on what?"

"Oh you. On your . . . intrinsic self-worth."

Ben stared at the cat wordlessly. Things were becoming
a bit too muddled for him to stay with this conversation.
He had been assaulted in his own home and bounced out
like a stranger. He had lost his identity. He had lost his
friends. He was cold and he was hungry. He felt as if any
intrinsic self-worth he might possess rated just about zero.

The cat stirred slightly. "I am deciding whether or not
I shall be your companion for a time," the creature
announced.

Ben grinned faintly. "My companion?"

"Yes. You certainly need one. You don't see yourself
to be who you really are. Neither does anyone else, ap-
parently, save for me. This intrigues me. I may decide to
stay with you long enough to see how it all turns out for
you."

Ben was incredulous. "Well, I'll say one thing for you.
You're a different sort—whether cat, human, fairy, or
whatever. But maybe you'd better think twice about

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97

sticking with me. You might be letting yourself in for more
than you can handle."

"Oh, I rather doubt that," the cat replied. "I seldom
encounter anything that difficult these days."

"Is that so?" Ben's patience slipped a notch. This cat
was insufferable! He hunched closer to the prim creature.
"Well, try this on for size, Mr. Cat. What if I were to tell
you that there is a wizard named Meeks who has stolen
my identity, my throne, and my life and consigned me to
exile in my own land? What if I were to tell you that I
intend to get all of that back from him, but that to do so
I need to find a sylph who in turn searches for a black
unicorn? And what if I were to tell you that there is every
chance that I—and anyone brash enough to offer to help
me in this endeavor—will be disposed of most unpleas-
antly if found out?"

The cat said nothing. It simply sat there as if consid-
ering. Ben leaned back, both satisfied and disgusted with
himself. Sure, he could congratulate himself for having
laid all of his cards on the table and setting the cat straight.
But he had also just destroyed the one chance he might
have had of finding someone to help him. You can't have
it both ways, he admonished himself.

But the cat seemed unperturbed. "Cats are not easily
discouraged once they have decided on something, you
know. Cats are quite independent in their behavioral pat-
terns and cannot be cajoled or frightened. I fail to see why
you bother trying such tactics with me, High Lord."

Ben sighed. "I apologize. I just thought you ought to
know how matters stand."

The cat stood up and arched its back. "I know exactly
how matters stand. You are the one who is deceived. But
deception needs only to be recognized to be banished.
You have that in common with the black unicorn, I
think."

Once more, Ben was surprised. He frowned. "You

98

THE BLACK UNICORN

know of the black unicorn? There really is such a
creature?"

The cat looked disgusted. "You search for it, don't
you?"

"For the sylph more than the unicorn," Ben answered
hastily. "She had a dream of the creature and of a bridle
of spun gold that would hold it; she left to search for
both." He hesitated, then plunged ahead. "The dream of
the unicorn was sent by the wizard. He sent other dreams
as well—to me and to Questor Thews, another wizard,
his half-brother. I think that in some way the dreams are
all tied together. I am afraid that Willow—the sylph-
is in danger. If I can reach her before the wizard
Meeks . . ."

"Certainly, certainly," the cat interrupted rather
rudely. There was a bored look on its face. It sat down
again. "It appears I had better come with you. Wizards
and black unicorns are nothing to be fooling about with."

"I agree," Ben said. "But you don't appear to be any
better equipped than I to do what needs to be done. Be-
sides, this isn't your problem. It's mine. I don't think I
would feel comfortable risking your life as well as my
own."

The cat sneezed. "Such a noble expression of con-
cern!" Ben could have sworn he caught a hint of sarcasm,
but the cat's face revealed nothing. The cat circled briefly
and sat down again. "What cat is not better equipped than
any human to do anything that needs to be done? Besides,
why do you persist in thinking of me as simply a cat?"

Ben shrugged. "Are you something more?"

The cat looked at him for a long time, then began to
wash. It licked and worried its fur until it had groomed
itself to its satisfaction. All the while, Ben sat watching.
When the cat was at last content, it faced him once more.
"You are not listening to me, my dear High Lord. It is
no wonder that you have lost yourself or that you have
become someone other than who you wish to be. It is no

Terry Brooks                                  99

wonder that no one but I can recognize you. I begin to
question if you are worth my time."

Ben's ears burned at the rebuke, but he said nothing.
The cat blinked. "It is cold here in the woods; there is a
chill in the air. I prefer the comfort of a hearth and fire.
Would you like a fire, High Lord?"

Ben nodded. "I'd love one—but I don't have the
tools."

The cat stood and stretched. "Exactly. But I do, you
see. Watch."

The cat began to glow again, just as it had before, and
its shape within the glow grew indistinct. Then suddenly
there was a crystalline glimmer, and the flesh and blood
creature of a moment earlier disappeared completely and
was replaced by something that looked as if it were a large
glass figurine. The figurine still retained the appearance
of a cat with human features, but it moved as if liquid.
Emerald eyes blazed out of a clear body in which moon-
light reflected and refracted ofiF mirrored surfaces that
shifted like tiny plates of glass. Then the light seemed to
coalesce in the emerald eyes and thrust outward like a
laser. It struck a gathering ofdeadwood a dozen feet away
and ignited it instantly into a blazing fire.

Ben shielded his eyes, then watched as the fire dimin-
ished until it was manageable—the size ofacampfire. The
emerald eyes dimmed. The cat shimmered and returned
to its former shape. It sat back slowly on its haunches
and regarded Ben solemnly. "You will recall now, per-
haps, what I told you I was?" it said.

"A prism cat," Ben responded at once, remembering.

"Quite right. I can capture light from any source—even
so distant a source as the land's eight moons. I can then
transform such light into energy. Basic physics, actually.
At any rate, I have abilities somewhat more advanced
than your own. You have seen but a small demonstration
of those abilities."

100

THE BLACK UNICORN

Ben nodded slowly, feeling a bit uneasy now. "I'll take
your word for it."

The cat moved a bit closer to the fire and sat down
again. The night sounds had died into stillness. There was
a sudden tension in the air. "I have been places others
only dream about and I have seen the things that are hid-
den there. I know many secrets." The cat's voice became
a whisper. "Come closer to the fire, High Lord Ben Hol-
iday. Feel the warmth." Ben did as he was told, the cat
watching. The emerald eyes seemed to flare anew. "I
know of wizards and missing books of magic. I know of
black unicorns and white, some lost, some found. I even
know something of the deceptions that make some beings
seem other than what they are." Ben started to interrupt,
but the cat hissed in warning. "No, High Lord—just lis-
ten! I am not disposed to converse so freely on most oc-
casions, so it would behoove you to let me finish! Cats
seldom have anything to say, but we always know much!
So it is in this instance. I know much that is hidden from
you. Some of what I know might be useful, some not. It
is all a matter of sorting out. But sorting out takes time,
and time requires commitment. I give commitment to
things but rarely. You, however, as I said, intrigue me.
I am thinking about making an exception. What do you

think?"

Ben wasn't sure what he thought. How could this cat
know about black unicorns and white? How could he
know about missing books of magic? How much of this
was just talk in general and how much specific to him?
He wanted to ask, but he knew as surely as it was night
that the cat was not about to answer him. He felt his
questions all jumble together in his throat.

"Will you come with me, then?" he asked finally.
The cat blinked. "I am thinking about it."
Ben nodded slowly. "Do you have a name?"
The cat blinked once more. "I have many names, just

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101

as I am many things. The name I favor just now is Edge-
wood Dirk. But you may call me Dirk."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Dirk," Ben
said.

"We shall see," Edgewood Dirk answered vaguely. He
turned and moved a step or two closer to the fire. "The
night wearies me; I prefer the day. I think I shall sleep
now." He circled a patch of grass several times and then
settled down, curling up into a ball of fur. The glow en-
veloped him momentarily, and he was fully cat once more.
"Good night, High Lord."

"Good night," Ben replied mechanically. He was still
taut with the emotions that Dirk had aroused in him. He
mulled over what the cat had said, trying to decide how
much the creature really knew and how much he was gen-
eralizing. The fire crackled and snapped against the dark-
ness, and he moved closer to it for warmth. Whatever the
case, Edgewood Dirk might have his uses, he reasoned
and stretched his hands toward the flames. If only this
strange creature were not so mercurial . . .

And suddenly an unexpected possibility occurred to
him.

"Dirk, did you come looking for me?" he asked.

"Ah!" the cat replied softly.

"Did you? Did you deliberately seek me out?"

He waited, but Edgewood Dirk said nothing more. The
stillness of a few moments earlier began to fill again with
night sounds. The tension within him dissipated. Flames
licked against the deadwood and chased the forest shad-
ows. Ben stared over at the sleeping cat and experienced
an odd sense of serenity. He no longer felt quite so alone.

He breathed deeply the night air and sighed. No longer
alone? Who did he think he was kidding?

He was still trying to decide when he finally fell asleep.

a-

Healer Sprite

a.

Ben Holiday awoke at dawn and could not figure out
where he was. His disorientation was so complete that
for several moments he could remember nothing of the
events of the past thirty-six hours. He lay on grasses damp
with morning dew in a clearing in a forest and wondered
why he wasn't in his own bed at Sterling Silver. He
glanced down his body and wondered why he was wearing
such shabby clothing. He stared off into the misted trees
and wondered what in the hell was going on.

Then he caught sight of Edgewood Dirk perched on a
fallen log, sassy and sleek, preening with studied care as
he licked himself, all the while studiously ignoring his
human company. Ben's situation came back to him then
in a rush of unpleasant memories, and he found himself
wishing rather ruefully that he had remained ignorant.

He rose, brushed himself off, drank a bit of spring
water, and ate a stalk from the Bonnie Blues. The fruit
taste was sweet and welcome, but his hunger for more
substantial fare was to go unassuaged for yet another
meal. He glanced once or twice in Dirk's direction, but
the cat went on about the business of washing himself
without noticing. Some things obviously took precedence
over others.
102

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103

When Dirk was finally finished, he rose from his sitting
position, stretched, and said, "I have decided to come
with you."

Ben refrained from saying what he was tempted to say
and simply nodded.

"For a while, at least," Dirk added pointedly.

Ben nodded a second time. "Do you know where it is
that I intend to go?" he asked.

Dirk gave him one of those patented "must you be such
an idiot?" looks and replied, "Why? Don't you?"

They departed the campsite and walked in silence
through the early morning hours. The skies were gray and
oppressive. A heavily clouded sun lifted sluggishly from
out of the tree line, its mist-diffused light sufficiently
bright to permit small patches of dull silver to chase the
shadows and dot the pathway ahead like stepping stones
across a pond. Ben led, Dirk picking his way carefully a
yard or two behind. There were no forest sounds to keep
them company; the woods seemed empty of life.

They reached the Irrylyn at midmoming and followed
its shoreline south along a narrow footpath that wound
through forest trees and deadwood. Like the woods sur-
rounding, the lake seemed lifeless. Clouds hung low
across its waters, and there was no wind. Ben's thoughts
drifted. He found himself reliving his first meeting with
Willow. He had come-to the lake country seeking the sup-
port of the River Master in his effort to claim Landover's
throne. Willow and Ben had chanced upon each other
bathing naked at night in the warm, spring-fed waters of
this lake. He had never seen anyone as beautiful as the
sylph. She had given back to him feelings he had thought
dead and gone.

He shook his head. The memory left him oddly sad, as
if it were an unpleasant reminder of something forever
lost. He stared out across the gray, flat surface of the
Irrylyn and tried to recapture the moment. But all he
found were ghosts at play in the mists.

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104

They broke away from the lake at its southern end and
moved back into the forest. It was beginning to spit rain.
The small patches of gray sunlight disappeared and shad-
ows closed about. The character of the woods underwent
a sudden and distinct change. The trees turned gnarled
and damp, monstrous sentinels for a surreal world of im-
aginary wraiths that slipped like smoke through a mist that
shrouded everything. Sounds returned, but they were
more haunting than comforting, bits and pieces of life that
sprinkled the gloom with hints of what lay hidden. Ben
slowed, blinking his eyes, wiping the water from his face.
He had made the trip down into the lake country on sev-
eral occasions since that first meeting with Willow, but
each time it had been in the company of the sylph or
Questor Thews, and one of the fairy people had always
met them. He could find his way as far as the Irrylyn by
himself, but he could not find his way much farther than
that. If he expected to find the River Master and his peo-
ple, he was going to have to have some help—and he
might not get it. The lake country people lived in Elderew,
their home city, hidden somewhere in these forests. No
one could find Elderew without help. The River Master
could either bring you in or he could leave you out—the
choice was his.

He walked a bit farther, saw the path before him dis-
appear completely, and stopped. There was no indication
of where to go next. There was no sign of a guide. The
forest about him was a sullen wall of damp and gloom.

"Is there a problem of some sort?"

Edgewood Dirk appeared next to him and sat down
gingerly, flinching as the rain struck him. Ben had for-
gotten the cat momentarily. "I'm not sure which way to
go," he admitted reluctantly.

"Oh?" Dirk looked at him, and Ben could have sworn
the cat shrugged. "Well, I suggest we trust to our
instincts."

The cat stood up and padded silently ahead, moving

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105

slightly left into the mist. Ben stared after the beast mo-
mentarily, then followed. Who knew? Maybe the cat's
instincts were worth trusting, he thought. They certainly
couldn't be any worse than his own.

They picked their way slowly ahead, slipping through
the massive trees, ducking low-hanging branches with
mossy trailers, stepping over rotting logs, and skirting
marshy patches of black ooze. The rain quickened, and
Ben felt his clothing grow damp and heavy. The forest
and the mist thickened and wrapped about him like a
cloak; everything disappeared outside a ten-foot sweep.
Ben heard things moving all about him, but saw nothing.
Dirk kept padding steadily on, seemingly oblivious.

Then abruptly a shadow detached itself from the gloom
and brought them to a halt. It was a wood sprite, lean and
wiry, small as a child, his skin browned and grainy, his
hair thick and dark, grown like a mane down the back of
his neck and arms. Dressed in nondescript, earth-colored
clothing, he seemed as much a part of the forest as the
trees and, had he wished, might have disappeared as
quickly as he had come. He said nothing as he glanced
first at Ben, then at Dirk. He hesitated as he caught sight
of the cat, seemed to consider something, then beckoned
them forward.

Ben sighed. Halfway home, he thought.

They walked ahead silently, following a narrow trail
that wound snakelike through vast, empty stretches of
swamp. Fog rolled over the still surface of the water,
clouds of impenetrable gray. A thin sheet of rain contin-
ued to fall. Shapes darted and glided wraithlike through
the gloom, some with faces that were almost human, some
with the look of forest creatures. Eyes blinked and peered
out at him, then were gone—sprites, nymphs, kelpies,
naiads, pixies, elementals of all forms. The fairy worlds
of dozens of childhood stories came suddenly to life, an
impossible mix of fantasy and truth. As always, it left Ben
filled with wonder—and slightly afraid.

io6 THE BLACK UNICORN

The path he followed was unfamiliar to him. It was like
that whenever he came to Elderew; the River Master al-
ways brought him in a different way. Sometimes he
passed through water that rose to his waist; sometimes
he passed along marshy earth that sucked eagerly at his
boots. Whichever way he came, the swamp was always
close about, and he knew that to stray from any of the
paths would bring a quick end to him. It always bothered
him that not only could he not find his way in, but he
could not find his way out again either. That meant he
was trapped here if the River Master did not choose to
release him. That would not have been a consideration in
the past. After all, he had been Landover's King and he
had possessed the power of the medallion. But all that
was changed now. He had lost both his identity and the
medallion. He was just a stranger. The River Master could
do as he chose with a stranger.

He was still thinking about his dilemma when they en-
tered a great stand of Cyprus, brushed aside curtains of
damp moss trailers, wove past massive gnarled roots, and
emerged at last from the marsh. Ben's boots found firmer
ground, and he began a short climb up a gentle slope. The
mist and gloom thinned, cyprus gave way to oak and elm,
fetid smells dissipated, and the sweeter scent of open
woodlands filled the morning air. Colors reappeared as
garlands of rain-soaked flowers strung along hedges and
roped from sway bars lined the path. Ben felt a tinge of
relief. The way forward was familiar again. He quickened
his pace, anxious that the journey be done.

Then the slope crested, the trees parted at the path's
end, and there he was. Elderew stretched away before
him, the city of the lake country fairies. The great, open-
air amphitheater where the people held their festivals
stood in the foreground, gray and empty in the rainfall.
Massive trees framed its walls, the lower branches con-
nected by sawn logs to form seats, the whole ringing an
arena of grasses and wild flowers. Branches interlaced

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107

overhead to create a leafy roof, the rain water dripping
from its eaves in a steady trickle. Beyond, trees twice the
size of California's giant redwoods rose over the amphi-
theater against the clouded horizon and cradled in their
branches the city proper—a broad cluster of cottages and
shops interconnected by an intricate network of tree lanes
and stairways that stretched from forest earth to treetop
and down again.

Ben stopped, stared, and blinked away the rain that ran
down his forehead into his eyes. He realized suddenly that
he was gaping like the country boy come to the city for
the first time. It reminded him of how much a stranger
he really was in this land—even after having lived in it
for over a year, even though he was its King. It underlined
in bold strokes the precariousness of his situation. He had
lost even the small recognition he had enjoyed. He was
an outsider stripped of friends and means, almost com-
pletely reliant on the charity of others.

The River Master appeared from a small stand of trees
to one side, flanked by half-a-dozen guards. Tall and lean,
his strange scaled skin gleaming with a silver cast where
it shone beneath his forest green clothing, the lord of the
lake country fairies stalked forward determinedly. His
hard, chiseled face did not evidence much in the way of
charity. His demeanor, normally calm and unhurried,
seemed brusque. He said something to the guide in a di-
alect Ben did not recognize, but there was no mistaking
the tone. The guide stepped back quickly, his small frame
rigid, his eyes turned away.

The River Master faced Ben. The silver diadem about
his forehead flashed dully with rain water as he tilted his
head up. Coarse, black hair rippled along the back of his
neck and forearms. There were to be no preliminaries.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you doing
here?"

Ben had anticipated some resistance, but nothing like
this. He had expected that the River Master wouldn't rec-

THE BLACK UNICORN

io8

ognize him, and, sure enough, he hadn't. But that didn't
explain why the ruler of the once-fairy people was being
so deliberately unfriendly. The River Master was sur-
rounded by guards, and they were armed. He had left the
members of his family behind where always before he had
gathered them about him to receive visitors. He had not
waited for Ben to reach the amphitheater, the traditional
greeting place for visitors. And his voice reflected undis-
guised anger and suspicion. Something was dreadfully
wrong.

Ben took a deep breath. "River Master, it's me, Ben
Holiday," he announced and waited. There wasn't even
a hint of recognition in the other's dark eyes. He forged
ahead. "I know I don't look like myself, but that's be-
cause something has been done to me. A magic has been
used to change my appearance. The wizard who served
the old King's son, the one who abandoned Landover—
he calls himself Meeks in my world—has returned and
stolen both my identity and the throne. It's a long story.
What's important is that I need your help. I have to find
Willow."

The River Master stared, obviously surprised. "You
are Ben Holiday?"

Ben nodded quickly. "I am—even though I don't ap-
pear to be. I'll try to explain. I traveled back to ..."

"No!" The River Master cut him short with an irritated
chop of one hand. "There is only one explanation I wish
to hear from you—whoever you are. I wish to know why
you brought the cat."

Now it was Ben's turn to stare. Rain water tricked
steadily down his face, and he bunked it from his eyes.
"The cat?"

"Yes, the cat! The prism cat, the fairy creature who
sits next to you—why did you bring it here?" The River
Master was a water sprite and there were gills directly
below his chin at either side of his throat. He was so
agitated now that the gills fluttered uncontrollably.

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109

Surprised, Ben glanced at Dirk, who sat a dozen paces
away and washed his paws with what appeared to be total
disinterest in the conversation taking place. "I don't un-
derstand," he replied finally, looking back again at the
River Master. "What's the problem with . . . ?"

"Am I not making myself clear to you?'' the River Mas-
ter interrupted once more, rigid with anger now.

"Well, no, not..."

"The cat, I asked you—what is the cat doing here?"

Ben gave up trying to be diplomatic. "Now look. I
didn't bring the cat; the cat chose to come. We have a
nice working arrangement—I don't tell him where to go
or what to do, and he doesn't tell me. So why don't you
quit being difficult and tell me what's going on. The only
thing I know about prism cats is that they can start camp-
fires and change shape. Obviously you know something
more."

The River Master's face tightened. "I do. And I would
think that the High Lord of Landover would make it his
business to know as well!" He came forward a step. "You
still claim that you are the High Lord, don't you?"

"I most certainly do."

"Even though you look nothing like Ben Holiday at all,
you wear a workman's clothing, and you travel without
retainers or standard?"

"I explained all that..."

"Yes, yes, yes!" The River Master shook his head.
"You certainly have the High Lord's boldness, if nothing
else."

He seemed to consider the matter for a moment, saying
nothing. The guards about him and the chastened guide
were like statues. Ben waited impatiently. A handful of
faces appeared from behind the trunks of surrounding
trees, materializing through the rain and gloom. The River
Master's people were growing curious.

Finally, the River Master cleared his throat. "Very
well. I don't accept that you are Landover's High Lord,

THE BLACK UNICORN

but whoever you are, allow me to explain a few things
about the creature with whom you travel. First, prism cats
are fairy creatures—true fairy creatures, not exiles and
emigrants like the people of the lake country. Prism cats
are almost never seen beyond the mists. Second, they do
not normally keep company with humans. Third, they are
uniformly unpredictable; no one pretends to understand
fully what they are about. And fourth, wherever they jour-
ney, they bring trouble. You are fortunate that you were
allowed into Elderew at all in the company of a prism cat.
Had I known that you traveled with one, I would almost

certainly have kept you out."

Ben sighed wearily, then nodded. Apparently super-
stitions about cats weren't confined to just his world.
"Okay, I promise to keep all that in mind in the future,"
he replied, fighting to keep the irritation from his voice.
"But the fact remains you did not keep me or the cat out,
so here we are and whether you believe that I am High
Lord of Landover or not doesn't really matter a rat's
whiskers. I still need your help if I..."

A sudden gust of rain blew into his face, and he choked
on what he was about to say next. He paused, shivering
within the cold and damp of his clothing. "Do you sup-
pose that we could continue this discussion somewhere

dry?" he asked quietly.
The other man studied him silently, his expression

unchanged.

"River Master, your daughter may be in great danger,"

Ben whispered. "Please!"

The River Master continued to study him a moment
longer, then beckoned him to follow. A wave of one hand
dismissed the guide. The faces of the watching villagers
disappeared just as quickly. They walked a short distance
through the trees to a gazebolike shelter formed of
sculpted spruce, the guards trailing watchfully. A pair of,
benches sat within the shelter facing each other over a S
broad, hollowed stump converted to a planter of flowers.

Terry Brooks in

The River Master seated himself on one bench, and Ben
took the other. The rain continued to fall all about them,
a soft, steady patter on the forest trees and earth, but it
was dry within the shelter.

Dirk appeared, jumped up beside Ben, settled down
with all four paws tucked away, and closed his eyes
sleepily.

The River Master glanced at the cat with renewed ir-
ritation, then squared around to Ben once more. "Say
what you would," he advised.

Ben told him the whole story. He felt he had nothing
to lose in doing so. He told him about the dreams, the
journeys embarked upon by Questor, Willow, and him-
self, the discovery of the missing books of magic, the un-
expected appearance of Meeks, the theft of both his
identity and the medallion, and his exile from Sterling
Silver. The River Master listened without comment. He
sat there as if he had been carved from stone, unmoving,
his eyes fastened on Ben's. Ben finished, and the lord of
the lake country people remained a statue.

"I don't know what else I can say to you," Ben said
finally.

The River Master responded with a barely perceptible
nod, but still said nothing.

"Listen to me," Ben pleaded. "I have to find Willow
and warn her that this dream of the black unicorn was
sent by Meeks and I don't think I can do that without
your help." He paused, suddenly reminded of a truth that
he still had difficulty acknowledging—even to himself.
"Willow means a great deal to me, River Master. I care
for her; you must know that. Now tell me—has she been
here?"

The River Master pulled his forest cloak closer about
him. The look in his eyes was distant, "I think perhaps
you are who you claim to be," he said softly. "I think
perhaps you are the High Lord. Perhaps."

He rose, glanced from his shelter at the guards who

112

THE BLACK UNICORN

ringed them, motioned all but one of them away, and came
over to stand next to Ben. He bent down, his strange,
wooden face right next to Ben's. "High Lord or fraud,
tell me the truth now—how is it that you come to travel
with this cat?"

Ben forced himself to stay calm. "It was a matter of
chance. The cat found me at the edge of the lake country
last night and suggested his company might be useful. I'm
still waiting to find out if that's true."

He looked down at Dirk momentarily, half expecting
the cat to confirm what he had said. But Dirk sat there
with his eyes closed and said nothing. It occurred to Ben
suddenly that the cat hadn't said a word since they had
arrived in Elderew. He wondered why.

"Give me your hand," the River Master said suddenly.
He reached down with his own and clasped Ben's tightly.
"There is one way in which I may be able to test the truth
of your claim. Do you remember when you first came to
Elderew and we walked alone through the village and
talked of the magic of the lake country people?" Ben nod-
ded. "Do you remember what I showed you of the
magic?"

The pressure of his grip was like an iron bar. Ben
winced, but did not try to pull away. "You touched a bush
stricken with wilt and healed it," he replied, his eyes
locked on those of the other man. "You were attempting
to show me why the lake country people could manage
on their own. Later, you refused to give your pledge to
the throne.'' He paused deliberately.' 'But you have given
it since, River Master—and you have given it to me."

The River Master studied him a moment, then pulled
him effortlessly to his feet. "I have said that you could
be Ben Holiday," he whispered, his hard face bent close.
"I believe it possible." He placed both of Ben's hands in
his own. "I do not know how your appearance was al-
tered, but if magic changed you to what you are, then
magic can be used to change you back again. I possess

Terry Brooks

the power to heal much that is sickened and distressed.
I will use that power to help you if I can." The scaled
hands tightened harder about Ben's. "Stand where you
are and do not move."

Ben took a quick breath. The River Master's grip
warmed his own, and the chiseled features lowered into
shadow. Ben waited. The other's breathing slowed and a
sudden flush spread through Ben's body. He shivered at
the feeling, but remained stationary.

Finally the River Master stepped back. There was a
hint of confusion in the dark eyes. "I am sorry, but I
cannot help you," he said finally. "Magic has indeed been
used to alter your appearance. But the magic is not of
another's making—it is of your own."

Ben stared. "What?"

"You have made yourself who and what you are," the
other said. "You must be the one to change yourself back
again."

"But that doesn't make any sense!" Ben exploded. "I
haven't done a thing to change what I look like—it was
Meeks! I watched him do it! He stole the medallion of the
Kings of Landover and gave me ... this!"

He yanked the tarnished image of Meeks from his tunic
and thrust it out angrily, almost as if to snap it from its
chain. The River Master studied it a moment, touched it
experimentally, then shook his head. "The image graven
here is clouded in the same manner as your appearance.
The magic at work is again of your own making."

Ben's jaw tightened, and he snatched the medallion
back again. The River Master was talking in riddles.
Whatever magic was at work was most assuredly not of
Ben's making. The River Master was either mistaken or
misled—or he was deliberately trying to confuse Ben be-
cause he still didn't trust him.

The River Master seemed to read his mind. He
shrugged. "Believe me or don't—the choice is yours.
What I tell you is what I see." He paused. "If this new

ii4

THE BLACK UNICORN

medallion you wear was given to you by your enemy,
perhaps you should discard it. Is there a reason you keep

it?"

Ben sighed. "Meeks told me that the medallion would
let him know what I was about. He warned that a certain
magic protects against trying to remove it—a magic that

could kill me."

"But is that so?" the other asked. "Perhaps the wizard

lied,"

Ben hesitated before replying. He had considered that
possibility before. After all, why should he believe any-
thing Meeks told him? The problem was that there was
no way to test the truth of the matter without risking his

life.

He lifted the tarnished medallion before him experi-
mentally. "I have given it some thought. . ."he began.

Then out of the comer of his eye, he saw Edgewood
Dirk stir. The cat's head lifted, and the green eyes
snapped open. It was almost as if the cat had roused him-
self from his near-comatose state for the express purpose
of seeing what Ben would do. The strange eyes were fixed
and staring. Ben hesitated, then slowly lowered the med-
allion back inside his tunic. "I think maybe I need to give
it some more thought," he finished.

Dirk's eyes slipped closed again. The black face low-
ered. Rain beat down steadily in the momentary stillness,
and a long peal of thunder rolled across the lake country
from somewhere east. Ben experienced a strange mix of
frustration and anger. What sort of game was the cat play-
ing now?

The River Master moved back to the other bench and
remained standing. "It appears I cannot help you after
all," he advised. "I think that you had better go—you

and the cat."

Ben saw his chance for any help slipping away. He rose
quickly. "At least tell me where to find Willow," he
begged. "She said she was coming here to the lake coun-

Terry Brooks

try to leam the meaning of her dream. Surely she would
come to you for help."

The River Master studied him silently for a moment,
considering in his own mind things hidden from Ben, then
shook his head slowly. "No, High Lord or pretender—
whichever you are—she would not."

He came partway around the stump once more, then
stopped. Wind blew sharply at his cloak, and he pulled it
close to ward away the chill of the rain. "I am her father,
but not the parent from whom she would seek help when
it was needed. I was never that. I have many children by
many wives. Some I am closer to than others. Willow has
never been close to me. She is too much like her mother—
a wild thing who seeks only to sever ties, not to bind them.
Neither seeks companionship from me; neither ever did.
The mother came to me only once, then was gone again,
back into the forest..."

He trailed off, distracted. "I never even knew her
name," he continued after a moment. "A wood nymph,
no more than a tiny bit of silk and light, she dazzled me
so that names were of no consequence for that one night.
I lost her without ever really having had her. I lost Willow,
I think, because of what that did to me. I begrudged the
mother her freedom, and Willow was forced to live with
my anger and resentment. That caused her to slip grad-
ually from me, and there was no help for it. I loved her
mother so much that I could neither forgive nor forget
what she had done to me. When I gave Willow permission
to live at Sterling Silver, I severed the only tie that still
bound us. She became forever her own woman and my
daughter no longer. Now she sees me as a man who has
more children than he can ever truly be father to. She
chooses not to be one of those."

He turned away, lost perhaps in memories. His confes-
sion was a strange one, Ben thought—told simply and
directly, but without a trace of emotion. There had been
no inflection in the River Master's voice, no expression

THE BLACK UNICORN

n6

in his face. Willow meant much to him, and yet he could
demonstrate nothing of it—he could only relate the fact
of its being. It made Ben wonder suddenly about his own
feelings for the sylph and question what they were.

The River Master stared out into the rain for a time,
motionless, silent, and then he shrugged. "I could heal
so much, but not that," he said quietly. "I did not know
how." Suddenly he looked back again at Ben—and it was
as if he were seeing him for the first time. "Why is it that
I tell this to you?" he whispered in surprise.

Ben had no idea. He kept silent as the River Master
stared at him as if mystified by his even being there. Then
the lord of the lake country people seemed simply to dis-
miss the matter. His voice was flat and cold. "You waste
your time with me. Willow will go to her mother. She will
go to the old pines and dance."

"Then I will search for her there," Ben said. He rose
to his feet. The River Master watched him, silent. Ben
hesitated. "You need not send a guide with me. I know
the way."

The River Master nodded, still silent. Ben started
away, walked a dozen paces from the shelter, stopped,
and turned. The single remaining guard had faded back
into the trees. The two men were alone. "Would you like
to come with me?" Ben asked impulsively.

But the River Master was staring out into the rain again,
lost in its dull silver glitter, lost in its patter. The gills on
his neck slowed to a barely perceptible flutter. The hard,
chiseled face seemed emptied of life.

"He doesn't hear you," Edgewood Dirk said suddenly.
Ben glanced down in surprise and found the cat at his
feet. "He has gone inside of himself to discover where
he's been. It happens like that sometimes after revealing
something so carefully guarded for so long."

Ben frowned. "Carefully guarded? Do you mean what
he said about Willow? About her mother?" The frown

Terry Brooks

ii7

deepened as he knelt next to the cat. "Dirk, why did he
tell me all that? He's not even sure who I am."

Dirk looked over at him. "There are many forms of
magic in this world, High Lord. Some come in large pack-
ages, some in small. Some work^with fire and strength of
body and heart. . . and some work with revelation."

"Yes, but why . . . ?"

"Listen to me, High Lord! Listen!" Dirk's voice was
a hiss. "So few humans listen to anything a cat has to
say. Most only talk to us. They talk to us because we are
such good listeners, you see. They find comfort in our
presence. We do not question and we do not judge. We
simply listen. They talk, and we listen. They tell us every-
thing! They tell us their innermost thoughts and dreams,
things they would tell no other. Sometimes, High Lord,
they do all this without even understanding why!"

He was still again, and suddenly it occurred to Ben that
Dirk wasn't speaking in general terms, but in very specific
ones. He wasn't talking about just everyone, but about
someone definite. His eyes lifted to find the solitary figure
of the River Master.

And then he thought suddenly about himself.

"Dirk, what. . . ?"

"Shhhhhh!" The cat hushed him into silence. "Let the
stillness be. High Lord. Do not disturb it. If you are able,
listen to its voice—but let it be."

The cat moved slowly off into the trees, picking his way
gingerly over the damp, water-soaked forest earth. Rain
fell in steady sheets out of skies clouded over from ho-
rizon to horizon, a gray ceiling canopied above the trees.
Silence filled thergaps left by the sound of the rain, cloak-
ing the city of Elderew, the houses and tree lanes, the
walkways and parks, and the vast, empty amphitheater
that loomed behind the still-motionless figure of the River
Master. Ben listened as Dirk had said he should and he
could almost hear the silence speak.

But what was it saying to him? What was it that he was

THE BLACK UNICORN

n8

supposed to learn? He shook his head hopelessly. He
didn't know.

Dirk had disappeared into the haze ahead of him, a pale
gray shadow. Abandoning his efforts to listen further, Ben
hurried after.

B- •B

Dapce

B. •B

That there was something inordinately peculiar about
Edgewood Dirk was no longer a matter for debate with
Ben Holiday. You might have argued that all cats were
somewhat peculiar and that it should come as no surprise
therefore that a cat out of the fairy world would turn out
to be even more peculiar than your average feline, but
Ben would have disagreed. The sort of peculiar exhibited
by Dirk went far beyond anything encountered in—oh,
say—Alice in Wonderland or Dick Whittington, Dirk lent
a whole new meaning to the word, and the most aggra-
vating part of all was the fact that, try as Ben might, he
could not decipher what it was that the beast was about!

In short, who was this cat, and what was he doing here
with Ben?

He would have loved to find immediate answers to his
questions, but time did not permit it. The cat was leading
the way once more—presumptuous beast that it was—
and he was forced once again to hurry after. Rain pelted
his face in a quickening downpour, and the wind gusted
in chill swipes. Nightfall was approaching and the weather
was growing worse. Ben was drenched, cold, hungry, and
discouraged, despite his resolve to continue, and he found
himself wishing fondly for a warm bed and dry clothes.
119

120

THE BLACK UNICORN

But he was unlikely to find either just now. The River
Master was barely tolerating his presence as it was, and
he must use the time that remained to him to try to find
Willow.

He passed through the city of Elderew, head bent
against the weather, another of dusk's faceless shadows,
then plunged into the forest beyond. The lights of cottages
and homes disappeared behind him, and the darkness
closed about in a wet, rain-sodden curtain. Trailers of mist
floated past like kite tails broken free from their winged
flyers, touching and rubbing, forming into gradually thick-
ening sheets. Ben ignored it all and pushed on. He had
gone to the old pines often enough to know the way
blindfolded.

He arrived at the clearing moments later—several steps
behind Edgewood Dirk. He glanced about expectantly,
but there was nothing to be found. The clearing sat empty,
ringed by the old pines, ancient sentinels of the forest, as
damp and cold as the rest of the land. He cast about briefly
for tracks or other signs of Willow's passing, but there
was nothing to indicate whether the sylph had been there
or not.

Edgewood Dirk paced the clearing once, sniffing at the
earth, then retreated to the shelter of a pine's spreading
boughs and sat down daintily. "She was here two nights
ago. High Lord," he announced. "She was seated close
to where you stand while her mother danced, then let the
change take her. She left at dawn."

Ben stared at the cat. "How do you know all this?"

"A good nose," Dirk advised disdainfully. "You
should cultivate one. It can tell you all sorts of things you
would miss otherwise. My nose tells me what your eyes
cannot tell you."

Ben moved over and hunched down in front of the cat,
ignoring the water that dripped off the pine's branches
and ran down his face in steady streams. "Does your nose
tell you where she has gone now?" he asked quietly.

Terry Brooks

121

"No," the cat answered.

"No?"

"You are repeating me without need," Dirk sniffed.

"But if your nose told you all the rest, why can't it tell
you that?" Ben demanded. "Is your nose always this
selective?"

"Sarcasm does not become you, High Lord," Dirk ad-
monished, head cocking slightly. "Besides, I deserve bet-
ter than that. I am, after all, your sole companion and
supporter in this venture."

"Which needs some explaining, I might point out,"
Ben snapped. "You persist in taunting me with what you
know, then tell me only what you wish. I realize that you
have a perfectly good excuse for this behavior, being a
cat, but I hope I can impress on you how aggravating
it is to me!" His temper was getting the better of him,
and his voice was rising. "I simply asked how you could
determine that Willow was here, that her mother
danced, that she transformed, and yet not be able to tell
me where . . ."

"I don't know."

". . . she might have gone after leaving . . .What? You
don't know? You don't know what?"

"I don't know why I don't know."

Ben stared once more.

"I should be able to read her passing from the clearing,
but I can't," Dirk finished calmly. "It is almost as if it
was deliberately hidden."

Ben took a moment to consider this new piece of in-
formation, then shook his head. "But why would she hide
where she was going?"

Dirk did not answer. Instead, he hissed softly in warn-
ing and rose to his feet once more. Ben stood up with him
and turned. The River Master's dark figure reappeared
from out of the mist, striding the length of the clearing to
where Ben waited. He was alone.

"Has Willow been here?" he asked abruptly.

122

THE BLACK UNICORN

Ben hesitated, then nodded. "Been and gone. The cat
says her mother danced for her two nights ago."

There was anger reflected in the eyes of the water
sprite, but he smoothed it away quickly. "She would ap-
pear to her daughter, of course," he murmured. "They
share that bond. The dance would reveal truth in the fairy
way, would show what was sought ..." He trailed off,
as if thinking of something else, then straightened. "Have
you determined where she has gone, High Lord?"

Again Ben hesitated, this time as much in surprise as
out of caution. The River Master had called him High
Lord. Had he now decided to accept Ben's claim? Ben
met his steady gaze. "Her trail has been concealed from
us," he said. "Hidden deliberately, the cat thinks."

The River Master glanced briefly at Dirk, frowning.
"Perhaps." His chiseled face swung back on Ben. "But
my daughter lacks the guile and her mother the means.
The concealment, if there be one, comes from another
source. There are some who would help her and not tell
me. There are some." The anger in his eyes flared anew,
then was gone. "Still, it hardly matters. I have the means
to find her anyway. And anything else I wish."

Abruptly he turned, muttering. "Time slips away. The
rain and the dark will hamper my efforts as it is. I must
act quickly if I am to be effective." There was an urgency
in his voice—and a determination. "I will not have these
games played behind my back. I will know the meaning
of the dream of the black unicorn and the golden bridle
and I will know it whether Willow and her mother wish
me to or not!"

He disappeared back into the forest in a rush, not both-
ering to see if Ben was following. He needn't have wor-
ried. Ben was right on his heels.

Edgewood Dirk stayed beneath the pine boughs and
watched them go. After a moment, he began to clean
himself.

The River Master had undergone such a complete trans-

Terry Brooks 123

formation that Ben could scarcely believe it. One moment
he was disinterested in the matter of his daughter and the
black unicorn, the next he could not find out about them
quickly enough. He strode back through the forest to the
edge of the city, calling his guard to him as he went. Re-
tainers appeared from everywhere, hanging at his side
momentarily for their instructions, then disappearing
back into the night. Like shadows, they came and dis-
appeared again, a smattering of sprites, kelpies, naiads,
and others—voiceless, momentary appendages to the
dark figure of their lord. The River Master spoke rapidly
and precisely, then turned away from each, his pace never
slowing. He skirted almost furtively the boundaries of
Elderew proper and turned back into the forest. Ben
trailed after, all but forgotten.

The moments slipped by as they passed deeper into the
forest trees, east and north of the city now. Nightfall had
closed down so tightly that nothing beyond a dozen feet
was visible. The rain washed over both of them in sheets,
a steady downpour that showed little sign of abating.
Thunder rolled out of the skies in long peals, and lightning
split the clouds from somewhere distant. The worst of the
storm had not reached them yet. It was still coming.

The River Master seemed oblivious. His concentration
was absolute. Ben began to wonder what was going on
and to grow uneasy.

Then they emerged from the trees onto a broad hillside
clearing that stretched downward to a vast lake into which
a pair of rivers fed at opposite ends. The rivers, swollen
with rain water, cascaded down through rocky gorges that
fell away from heights anchored by massive clusters of
the giant redwoodlike trees. The lake roiled with the
pumping action, and the flare of new lightning danced and
glimmered with a mix of torchlight from stanchions that
ran the length and breadth of the hills in widening arcs
and lit the whole of the slope. Ben slowed and stared out
into the black. The lake country people seemed to be

THE BLACK UNICORN

124

everywhere—or were there simply a few amid the vast
number of torches? Wind whipped the rain into his eyes,
and he could not tell.

The River Master turned, saw he was still there, and
beckoned him forward to a shelf of rock that jutted out
from the hillside and overlooked the rivers, the lake, and
the weaving lines of torchlight. The fury of the storm
broke over them as they stood on the unsheltered plat-
form, pressed close against each other, their words almost
lost in the howl of the wind.

"Watch now, High Lord!" the River Master shouted,
his strange, chiseled face inches from Ben's. "I cannot
command Willow's mother to dance for me as she danced
for her daughter, but I can command her kindred! I will
know what secrets are kept from me!"

Ben nodded mutely. There was a frenzy in the other's
eyes that he had never seen before—a frenzy that hinted
of passion.

The River Master signaled, and a sticklike being ap-
proached from out of the night, a creature so thin that it
appeared to have been fashioned of deadwood. Rough
woolen clothing hung about its body, whipped by the
wind, and green comsilk hair ran from the crown of its
head to the nape of its neck and along its spine and the
backs of its arms and legs. Its features were formed of
what looked to be a series of slits cut into the wood of
its face. It carried a set of music pipes in one hand.

"Play!" the River Master commanded, one hand
sweeping the valley slope. "Call them!"

The stick creature hunched down against the sodden
earth, settled itself with its legs crossed before it, and
brought the pipes to its lips. The music began softly, a
sweet, lilting cadence that rocked in the troughs of mo-
mentary stillness left by lulls in the wind's deep howl. It
meshed and blended with the sounds of the storm, weav-
ing its way through the fabric like thread hand-sewn. It
had the texture of silk, smooth and quiet, and it wrapped

Terry Brooks 125

itself about the listeners like a blanket. Downward along
the slope it carried, and there was the sense of something
changing in the air.

"Hear it!" the River Master said in Ben's ear, exultant.
The player of the pipes lifted the pitch gradually, and
the song rose higher into the fury of the storm. Slowly it
transcended the dark and the wet and the chill, and the
whole of their surroundings began to alter. The howl of
the storm diminished as if blanketed away, the chill gave
way to warmth, and the night brightened as if dawn had
come already. Ben felt himself lifted as on a cushion of
air. He blinked, disbelieving. Everything about him was
changing—shape, substance, time, everything. There was
a magic in the music that was greater than any he had
ever encountered, a power that could alter even nature's
great force.

Torchlight brightened as if the fires had been given new
life, and the slope was lit with their glow. But there was
a new glow as well, a glow that hung on the night air like
incandescence. It radiated out across the slope and down-
ward to the waters of the lake. The waters had gone still,
the churning smoothed away as a mother's hand would
smooth a sleeping child's ruffled hair. The glow danced
at the water's edge, a living thing.

"There, High Lord—look!" the River Master urged.
Ben stared. Bits and pieces of the glow had begun to
take shape. Dancing, whirling, lifting against the torch-
light, they had begun to assume the forms of fairy crea-
tures. Slight, airy things, they gathered strength from the
glow and from the music of the pipes and took life. Ben
knew them instantly. They were wood nymphs, the same
as Willow's mother—childlike creatures as insubstantial
as smoke. Limbs flashed and glistened nut-brown, hair
tumbled waist-length, tiny faces lifted skyward. Dozens
of them appeared as if from nowhere and danced and flit-
ted at the shores of the mirrored lake in a kaleidoscope
of movement.

THE BLACK UNICORN

126

The music heightened. The glow radiated the warmth
of a summer's day, and colors began to appear in its
brightness—rainbow shades that mixed and spread like
an artist's brush strokes on canvass. Shape and form
began to alter, and Ben felt himself transported to another
time and place. He was young again, and the world was
all new. The lifting sensation he had experienced earlier
intensified, and he was floating free of the earth, free of
gravity's pull. The River Master and the player of the
pipes floated with him, birdlike in the sweep of sound and
color. Still the wood nymphs danced below him, whirling
with a new exhilaration into the glow, into the air. They
spun outward from the shore's edge, skipping weightless
across the waters of the still lake, their tiny forms barely
touching the mirrored surface. Slowly they came together
at the lake's center, forming intricate patterns as they
linked briefly and broke away again, linked and broke

away.

Above them, an image began to take shape in the air.

"Now it comes!" the River Master breathed from
somewhere so distant that Ben could barely hear him.

The image came clear, and it was Willow. She stood
alone at the edge of a lake—this lake—and held in her
hand the bridle of spun gold that was the vision of her
dream. She was clothed in white silk, and her beauty was
a radiance that outshone even that created by the music
of the player and the dance of the wood nymphs. Rushed
with life, her face lifted against the colors that spun about
her, and her long green tresses fanned out in the whisper
of the wind. She held the bridle out from her as if it were
a gift and she waited.

Beware! a voice warned suddenly, a voice so tiny as
to be almost lost in the whirl of the vision.

Ben wrenched his eyes momentarily from Willow.
From what seemed an impossible distance below. Edge-
wood Dirk stared up at him.

"What's wrong?" Ben managed to ask.

Terry Brooks

127

But the question was irretrievably lost in what hap-
pened next. The music had reached a fever pitch, so in-
tense that it locked away everything. The world was gone.
There was only the lake, the whirl of the wood nymphs,
and the vision of Willow. Colors flooded Ben's vision with
impossibly bright hues, and there were tears in his eyes.
He had never known such happiness. He felt as if he were
breaking apart inside and had been transformed.

Then something new appeared at the edge of the lake,
beyond the nymphs and the vision of Willow—something
at once both impossibly lovely and terrifying. Ben heard
the muffled cry of the River Master. It was a cry of ful-
fillment. The whirl of sound and color shimmered and
bent like fabric stretched, and the intrusion from without
stepped gingerly into its weave.

It was the black unicorn.

Ben felt his breath catch in his throat. There was a
burning in his eyes and a sudden, impossible sense of
need. He had never seen anything as beautiful as the uni-
corn. Even Willow in the vision of the wood nymphs was
but a pale shadow next to the fairy creature. Its delicate
body seemed to sway with the music and the dance as it
emerged from the dark into the sweep of color, and its
horn glowed white with the magic of its being.

Then Dirk's warning came again, no more than a mem-
ory this time. Beware!

"What is happening?" Ben whispered.

The River Master turned back to him now, head swing-
ing about in slow motion. The hard face was alive with
feelings that danced across its chiseled surface in waves
of light and color. He spoke, yet the words seemed to
come not from his mouth, but from his mind. "I will have
him, High Lord! I will have his magic for my own, and
it will become a part of my land and my people! He must
belong to me! He must!"

And Ben saw suddenly, through the blanket of pleasant
feelings and through the music and the dance, the truth

THE BLACK UNICORN

128

of what the River Master was about. The River Master
had not summoned the piper and the wood nymphs for
the purpose of discovering anything of Willow or her
mother. His ambition was much greater than that. He had
summoned piper and nymphs to bring him the black uni-
corn. He had used music and dance to create the illusion
of his daughter and her bridle of spun gold to draw the
unicorn to the lakeside where it might be taken. The River
Master had believed Ben's story all right—but he had
decided that the black unicorn would better serve his own
purposes than the purposes of a dethroned and powerless
King. He had taken Willow's dream and made it his
own. This whole business was an elaborate charade—the
piper and the wood nymphs and the instruments used to

create it.
And, oh, God, it had worked! The black unicorn had

come!

He watched the unicorn now in fascination, unable to
turn away, knowing he must do something to prevent
what was about to happen, but frozen by the beauty and
intensity of the vision. The unicorn shone like a bit of
flawless night against the sweep of colors that had drawn
it in. It nodded its slender head to the call of the music
and cried once to the vision of the girl with her golden
bridle. It was a fairy-tale rendering brought to life, and
the loveliness of it was compelling. Goat's feet pranced
and lion's tail swished, and the unicorn stepped further
into the trap.

/ have to stop it! Ben felt himself trying to scream.
And then the fabric through which the black unicorn
had passed so easily seemed to shred at its center point
high above the vision and the wood nymphs, and a night-
mare born of other minds and needs thrust its way into
view. It was a loathsome thing, a creature of scales and
spikes, of teeth and claws, winged and coated in a black
ooze that steamed at the warmth of the air. A cross be-
tween a serpent and a wolf, it forced its way in from the

Terry Brooks

129

night and the storm and plummeted toward the lake,
shrieking.

Ben went cold. He had seen this being before. It was
a demon out of the netherworld of Abaddon—a twin to
the monster once ridden in battle by the Iron Mark.

It came for them in a fury, then veered sharply as it
caught sight of the black unicorn. The unicorn saw the
demon as well and screamed a terrifying, high-pitched
cry. The ridged hom glowed white-hot with magic, and
the unicorn leaped sideways as the demon swept by it,
talons raking the empty air. Then the unicorn was gone,
fled back into the night, having disappeared as suddenly
as it had come.

The River Master cried out in anguish and fury. The
demon swung back around, and fire lanced from its open
maw. The flames engulfed the piper and turned the stick-
like figure to ash. Sound and color dissipated into mist,
and the night returned. Darkness flooded inward as the
vision of Willow and the golden bridle collapsed. Ben
stood once more on the shelf of rock beside the River
Master, and the fury of the storm washed over them anew.

But the wood nymphs whirled on, still caught up in the
frenzy of their dance. It was as if they could not stop. All
about the lake's shores they spun, tiny bits of glowing
light in the black and the wet. Torches fizzled and went
dark, blown out by the rain and the wind, and only the
light of the wood nymphs was left against the night. It
drew the demon like a hunter to its prey. The monster
swung back and down, sweeping the lake end to end, fire
bursting from its throat and turning the helpless dancers
to ash. The screams as they died were tiny shrieks that
lacked real substance, and they disappeared as if candles
snuffed. The River Master howled in despair, but could
not save them. One by one they died, burned away by
the demon as it passed back and forth across the night
like death's shadow.

Ben was beside himself. He could not bear the destruc-

130                 THE BLACK UNICORN

tion. But he could not turn away. He acted finally because
the horror was too much to stand further. He acted with-
out thinking, yanking the tarnished medallion from be-
neath his tunic as he would have in the old days, thrusting
it out against the night, shouting in fury at the winged

demon.
He had forgotten momentarily what medallion it was

he wore.

The demon turned and glided toward him. Ben was sud-
denly conscious of Dirk at his feet, sitting motionless next
to him. He was conscious now, too, of the fact that by
drawing attention to himself he had just signed his own

death warrant.

Then lightning flashed, and the demon saw clearly the
medallion, Ben Holiday, and Edgewood Dirk. The beast
hissed with the fury of steam released through a fissure
in the earth, and swung abruptly away. It flew back into

the night and was gone.

Ben was shaking. He didn't know what had happened.
He only knew that for some unexplainable reason he was
still alive. Below, the last of the wood nymphs had ceased
finally to dance and disappeared back into forest, the loss
of light from their passing leaving dark the whole of the
lake and hills. Wind and rain lashed the emptiness that

remained.
Ben stilled his hands. Slowly he placed the medallion

back within his tunic. It burned against his skin.

The River Master had sunk to one knee. His eyes were
fixed on Ben. "That thing knew you!" he cried in anger.
"No, it couldn't have . . ." Ben began.

"The medallion!" the other cut him short. "It knew
the medallion! There is a tie between you that you cannot
explain away!" He rose to his feet, his breath a sharp
hiss. "You have made me lose everything! You have cost
me the unicorn! You have caused the destruction of my
piper and my wood nymphs. You and that cat! I warned
you about that cat! Trouble follows a prism cat e very-

Terry Brooks 131

where! Look what you have done! Look what you have
caused!"

Ben recoiled. "I haven't . . ."

But the River Master cut him short once more. "I want
you gone! I am no longer sure who you are and I no longer
care! I want you gone from my country now—and the cat
as well! If I find you here come morning, I will put you
into the swamp in a place from which you will never es-
cape! Now go!"

The fury in his voice defied argument. The River Mas-
ter had been cheated of something he had wanted very
badly and he had made up his mind that Ben was at fault.
It made no difference that his wants had been selfish ones
or that he had been deprived of something to which he
had not been entitled in the first place. It was of no im-
portance that he had misused Ben. All he could see was
the loss.

Ben felt an odd emptiness within him. He had expected
better of the River Master.

He turned without a word and walked away into the
night.

a'

Earth Mother

a.

The rain and the chill turned Ben Holiday into a sodden,
disheveled mess as he trudged back through the forest
trees from the empty hillside and the angry River Master,
and his appearance became an accurate reflection of his
mood. The mix of emotions he had experienced from the
music of the pipes, the dance of the wood nymphs, the
vision of Willow and what followed was still tearing at
him with all the savagery and persistence of a wolf pack.
He could still feel twinges of the ecstasy and freedom of
self that the music and dance had brought, but the pre-
dominant feelings were of dismay and horror.

The images played out in the dark solitude of his mind:

the River Master, anxious to seize the black unicorn so
that its magic might be his alone; that winged demon,
burning the frail wood nymphs to ash as they whirled help-
lessly at the water's edge; Ben himself, instinctively hold-
ing forth the blackened image of Meeks as if it were a
talisman that would somehow be recognized . . .

And perhaps it was.

Damn, what had happened there? What was it that had
happened? The winged creature had come for him to de-
stroy him, then turned aside as if it had flown into a wall!
132

Terry Brooks

i33

Had it been the medallion, Ben, Edgewood Dirk, or per-
haps something else entirely?

The River Master clearly thought it was the medallion.
He was convinced that Ben was bound to the demon—
and to Meeks—in some foul way that protected all three.
Ben shivered. He had to admit to the possibility. The
image of Meeks might have been enough to turn back the
demon...

He stopped. That was assuming that the demon had
been sent by Meeks, of course. But wasn't it the only
possibility that made sense? Hadn't Meeks invited the
demons out of Abaddon in the first place when the old
King died? Ben started walking again. Yes, it had to be
Meeks. He must have sent the demon because he knew
the River Master was close to capturing the black unicorn,
and he wanted the unicorn for himself—for whatever rea-
son. But that meant he must have had some way of know-
ing that the River Master was about to capture the
unicorn, and that in turn meant that Ben's medallion might
have provided such a way. Meeks had warned that the
medallion would let him know what Ben was about. The
medallion might have done exactly that. Ben might indeed
have been responsible for the destruction of the wood
nymphs.

The screams of the dying fairy creatures still echoed in
the dark comers of his mind, a savage reminder. Until
they died, he had not even thought of them as real—just
bits and pieces of light with human images cast upon the
glow; slender, lyrical figurines that would shatter like
glass if dropped . . .

The whole mixed and teased in his mind until at last he
shoved all the pieces aside violently. His questions bred
more questions, and there seemed to be answers for none
of them. The rain beat down in a wet staccato, drumming,
puddling in mud and grasses, and running across the path-
way he followed in small rivers. He could feel the cold
and the dark pressing in about him and he wished faintly

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134

for a moment's warmth and a spark of light. He walked;

yet he was not really aware of where it was he was going.
Away, he decided. Away from the River Master and the
lake country, away from the one good chance he had of
finding Willow before Meeks.

His boots slapped at the mud and damp. But where was
he to go?

He cast about suddenly for Edgewood Dirk. Where was
that confounded cat? It was always there when he didn't
need it; where was it now that he did? Dirk always seemed
to know which way to go. The cat seemed to know
everything.

Dirk had even known what the River Master was trying
to do with the music of the piper and the dance of the
wood nymphs, Ben thought as he reflected on the events
that had just taken place.

Beware, the cat had warned.

Convenient, that.

His thoughts twisted, and he found himself thinking
again of the medallion. Had it really brought the demon?
Had it really been responsible for the destruction of the
wood nymphs and the piper? He couldn't live with that.
Perhaps he ought simply to get rid of the thing. After all,
what if it actually did work to the benefit of the wizard
if Ben kept it on? Maybe that was exactly what Meeks
wanted. The warning against trying to remove it might be
a ruse. If he took it off, maybe he would be free of the
wizard.

He stopped once more and reached down into his tunic.
He placed his fingers about the chain from which the med-
allion hung and slowly lifted it free. Staring at it in the
dark, seeing its muted, tarnished image glimmer in the
brief flashes of lightning that streaked the forest skies, he
had an incredibly strong urge to fling the unsettling piece
of metal from him. If he did so, he might set himself free,
redeem himself in part at least for the destruction of the
wood nymphs. He might begin anew . . .

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i35

"Ah, my dear High Lord, there you are—wandering
about in the dark like some blind 'possum. I thought I
had lost you completely."

Edgewood Dirk stepped delicately from the trees, his
immaculate coat glistening with rain water, his whiskers
drooping slightly with the damp. He walked over to a
fallen log and sat down on the dampened bark with studied
care.

"Where have you been?" Ben snapped irritably. He
hesitated, then let the medallion drop back into his tunic.

"Looking for you, of course," Dirk replied calmly. "It
seems that you need a great deal of looking after."

"Is that so?" Ben was steamed. He was weary, fright-
ened, disgusted, and a dozen other unpleasant things, but
most of all he was sick and tired of being treated like a
lost puppy by this damn cat. "Well, if ever there was
someone suited to the task of looking after people, it's
you, isn't it? Edgewood Dirk, caretaker of lost souls. Who
else possesses such marvelous insight into human char-
acter? Who else discerns the truth of things with such
remarkable consistency? Tell me again, Dirk—how is it
that you know so much? Come on, tell me! How did you
know what the River Master was doing back there before
I did? How did you know he was summoning the unicorn?
Why did you let me just stand there and be part of it?
Those wood nymphs probably died because of me! Why
did you let that happen?"

The cat stared at him pointedly for a moment, then
began to wash. Ben waited. Dirk seemed oblivious to his
presence.

"Well?" Ben said finally.

The cat looked up. "You do have a lot of questions,
don't you, High Lord?" The pink tongue licked out.
"Why is it that you keep looking to me for the answers?"

"Because you seem to have them, damn it!"

"What seems to be and what actually is are quite dif-
ferent, High Lord—a lesson you have yet to learn. I have

THE BLACK UNICORN

136

instinct and I have common sense; sometimes I can dis-
cern things more easily than humans. I am not, however,
a vast reservoir of answers to questions. There is a dif-
ference." He sneezed. "Besides, you mistake the nature
of our relationship yet again. I am a cat and I don't have
to tell you anything. I am your companion in this adven-
ture, not your mentor. I am here at my own sufferance
and I can leave when I choose. I need answer to no one—
least of all you. If you desire answers to your questions,
I suggest you find them yourself. The answers are all there
if you would make the necessary effort to look for them."

"You could have warned me!"

"You could have warned yourself. You simply didn't
bother. Be grateful that I chose to intervene at all."

"But the wood nymphs ..."

"Why is it," the cat cut him short, "that you contin-
ually insist on asking for things to which you are not en-
titled? I am not your deus ex machinal"

Ben choked back whatever he was about to say next
and stared. Deus ex machinal "You speak Latin?" he
asked in disbelief.

"And I read Greek," Dirk answered.

Ben nodded, wishing as he did that he might solve even
a small part of the mystery of the cat. "Did you know
ahead of time that the wood nymphs were going to be
destroyed?" he asked finally.

The cat took its time answering. "I knew that the
demon would not destroy you."

"Because ?"

"Because you are the High Lord."

"A High Lord no one recognizes, however."

"A High Lord who won't recognize himself."

Ben hesitated. He wanted to say, "I do, but my ap-
pearance has been changed and my medallion has been
stolen, and so on and so forth." But he didn't because
this was a road they had traveled down already. He simply

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137

said, "If the demon couldn't recognize me, then how did
you know he wouldn't destroy me?"

Dirk almost seemed to shrug. "The medallion."

Ben nodded. "Then I think I should get rid of the med-
allion. I think the medallion caused what happened back
there—the appearance of the demon, the destruction of
the wood nymphs, all of it. I think I should chuck it as
far away as I can, Dirk."

Dirk rose and. stretched. "I think you should see what
the mud puppy wants first," he said.

His gaze shifted and Ben's followed. Rain and gloom
almost hid the small, dark shape that crouched a dozen
feet away on a scattering of pine needles. It was an odd-
looking creature, vaguely reminiscent of a beaver with
long ears. It stared back at him with eyes that glowed
bright yellow in the dark.

"What is it?" he asked Dirk.

"A wight that scavenges and cleans up after other crea-
tures—a sort of four-legged housekeeper."

"What does it want?"

Dirk managed to look put upon. "Why ask me? Why
not ask the mud puppy?"

Ben sighed. Why not, indeed? "Can I do something for
you?" he asked the motionless shape.

The mud puppy dropped back down on all fours and
started away, turned back momentarily, started away,
and turned back again.

"Don't tell me," Ben advised Dirk. "It wants us to
follow."

"Very well, I won't tell you," Dirk promised.

They followed the mud puppy through the forest, an-
gling north once more away from the city ofElderew and
the people of the lake country. The rain lessened to a slow
drizzle, and the clouds began to break, allowing some light
to seep through to the forestland. The chill continued to
hang in the air, but Ben was so numb with cold already
that he no longer noticed. He plodded after the mud puppy

THE BLACK UNICORN

i38

in silence, wondering vaguely how the creature got its
name, wondering where they were going and why, what
he should do about the medallion, and most of all what
he should do about Dirk. The cat trailed after him, picking
its way with cautious steps and graceful leaps, avoiding
the mud and the puddles, and working very hard at keep-
ing itself clean.

Just like your typical cat, Ben thought.

Except that Edgewood Dirk was anything but a typical
cat, of course, and it didn't matter how long or how hard
he protested otherwise. The real question was, what was
Ben going to do about him? Traveling with Dirk was like
traveling with that older person who always made you
feel like a child and kept telling you not to be one. Dirk
was obviously there for a reason, but Ben was beginning
to wonder if it was a reason that would serve any useful
purpose.

The hardwood trees of the high forest began to give '
way to swamp as they approached the far north boundary
of Elderew. The land began to slope away, and mist to ^
appear in long, winding trailers. The gloom thickened and
the chill dampness turned to a clinging warmth. Ben was
not comforted.                                    <

The mud puppy continued on without slowing.      '

"Do these creatures do this sort of thing often?" Ben
whispered at last to Dirk. "Ask you to follow them, I
mean?"

"Never," Dirk responded and sneezed.

Ben scowled back at the cat. I hope you catch pneu-
monia, he thought darkly.

They passed down into the murk, into stands of cypress
and willow and thickets of swamp growth that defied de- J
scription or identification. Mud sucked at his boots and^
water oozed into the impressions they left. The rain
abated completely, and there was a sullen stillness. Ben
wondered what it felt like to be dry. His clothing felt as
if it were weighted with lead. The mist was quite heavy

Terry Brooks 139

now, and his vision was reduced to a distance of no more
than a few feet. Maybe we've been brought here to die,
he decided. Maybe this is it.

But it wasn't "it" or anything else of immediate con-
cern; it was simply a trek through the swamp that ended
at a vast mudhole. The mud puppy brought Ben and Dirk
to the mudhole, waited until they were at its edge, and
then disappeared into the dark. The mudhole stretched
away into the mist and dark for better than fifty feet, a
vast, placid sinkhole that belched air bubbles from time
to time and evidenced no interest in much else. Ben stared
out at the mudhole, glanced down at Dirk, and wondered
what was supposed to happen next.

He found out a moment later. The mudhole seemed to
heave upward at its centermost point, and a woman rose
from the depths to stand upon its surface.

"Good morning, High Lord," she greeted.

She was naked, it appeared, although it was hard to be
certain because she was plastered from head to foot with
mud, and it clung to her as if it were a covering. There
was a glimmer of light from her eyes as they fastened on
him; but, except for the eyes, there was only the shape
of her beneath the mud. She rested on the surface of the
sinkhole as if weightless, relaxed and quite at home.

"Good morning," he replied uncertainly.

"I see that you have a prism cat traveling with you,"
she said, her voice oddly flat and resonant. "Quite a
stroke of good fortune. A prism cat can be a very valuable
companion."

Ben was not sure he agreed with that assessment, but
held his tongue. Dirk said nothing.

"I am known as the Earth Mother, High Lord," the
woman continued. "The name was given to me some cen-
turies ago by the people of the lake country. Like them,
I am a fairy creature bound to this world. Unlike them,
the choice to come was mine, and it was made at the time
of the beginning of the land when there was need for me.

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140

I am the soul and spirit of the earth. I am Landover's
gardener, you might say. I keep watch over her soil and
the things that grow upon it. The province of protection
and care of the land is not mine alone, because those who
live upon its surface must share responsibility for its
care—but I am an integral part of the process. I give pos-
sibility from beneath and others see that possibility to
fruition." She paused. "Do you understand, High Lord?"

Ben nodded. "I think I do."

"Well, some understanding is necessary. The earth and
I are inseparable; it is part of my composition, and I am
one with it. Because we are joined, most of what happens
within Landover is known to me. I know of you espe-
cially, because your magic is also a part of me. There is
a bond between Landover's High Lord and the land that
is inseparable. You understand that as well, don't you?"

Ben nodded again. "I have learned as much. Is that
how you know me now, even with my appearance
altered?"

"I know you as the prism cat knows you, High Lord;

I never rely on appearances." There was the vaguest hint
of laughter, not unkind. "I watched you arrive in Land-
over and I have followed you since. You possess courage
and determination; you lack only knowledge. But knowl-
edge will come in time. This is a land not easily
understood."

"It is a bit confusing just now," Ben agreed. Already
he liked the Earth Mother a whole lot better than he liked
Edgewood Dirk.

"Confusing, yes. But less so than you believe." She
shifted slightly within the swirl of mist, her opaque form
featureless and immutable. Her eyes glistened wetly. "I
had the mud puppy bring you to me so that I could give
you some information about Willow."

"You've seen her?" Ben demanded.

"I have. Her mother brought her to me. Her mother
and I are close in the manner of true fairy creatures and

Terry Brooks 141

the earth. We share the magic. Her mother is ill-used by
the River Master, who thinks only to possess her and not
to accept her for what she is. The River Master seeks to
dominate in the manner of humans, High Lord—a great
failing that I hope he will come to recognize in time. Pos-
session of the land and her gifts is not meant to be. The
land is a trust to be shared by all of finite lives and never
to be taken for private use. But that has never been the
way of things—not in Landover, not in all the worlds
beyond. The higher orders seek to dominate the lower;

all seek to dominate the land. An Earth Mother's heart
is often broken in that way."

She paused. "The River Master tries, and he is better
than some. Still, he, too, seeks domination in other, less
obvious ways. He would use his magic to turn the land
pure without understanding that his vision is not neces-
sarily true. Healing is needed, High Lord, but not all heal-
ing is advisable. Sometimes the process of dying and
regeneration is intrinsic to development. A recycling of
life is a part of being. No one can predict the whole of
the cycle, and a tampering with any period can be harmful.
The River Master fails to see this—just as he fails to see
why Willow's mother cannot belong to him. He only sees
what needs are immediately before him."

"Such as his need for the black unicorn?" Ben inter-
jected impulsively.

The Earth Mother studied him closely. "Yes, High
Lord—the black unicorn. There is a need that none can
resist—not even you, perhaps." She was silent a mo-
ment. "I digress. I brought you here to tell you of Willow.
I have felt you with her, and the feeling is good. There is
a special bond between you that promises something I
have long waited for. I wish to do what I may to preserve
that bond."

One dark arm lifted. "Listen, then, High Lord. Wil-
low's mother brought her to me two days ago at dawn.
Willow would not go to her father for help, and her mother

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142

could not give her what she needed. She hoped that I
could. Willow has dreamed twice now of the black uni-
corn—once when she was with you, once after. The
dreams are a mix of truth and lies, and she cannot separate *
the one from the other. I could not help her with that;

dreams are not a province of the earth. Dreams live in
the air and in the mind. She asked then if I knew whether
the black unicorn was a thing of good or evil. I told her
that it would be both until the truth of it was clearly under-
stood. She asked if I could show her that truth. I told her
that truth was not mine to give. She asked me then if I
knew of a bridle of spun gold. I told her that I did. She
has gone to find it."

"Where?" Ben asked at once.

The Earth Mother was silent again for a moment, as if
debating something with herself. "High Lord, you must
promise me something," she said finally. "I know you
are troubled. I know you are afraid. Perhaps you will even
become desperate. The road you travel now is a difficult
one. But you must promise me that whatever befalls you
and however overwhelming your feelings because of it,
your first concern will always be for Willow. You must
promise that you will do whatever it lies within your
power to do to keep her safe."

Ben hesitated a moment before replying, puzzled. "I
don't understand. Why do you ask this?"

The Earth Mother's arms folded into her body. "Be-
cause I must»High Lord. Because of who I am. That has
to be answer enough for you."

Ben frowned. "What if I cannot keep this promise?
What if I choose not to keep it?"

"Once the promise is given, it must be kept. You will
keep it because you have no choice." The Earth Mother's
eyes blinked once. "You give it to me, remember, and a
promise given to me by you cannot be broken. The magic
binds us in that way."

Ben weighed the matter carefully for several long mo-

Terry Brooks

i43

ments, undecided. It wasn't so much the idea of com-
mitting himself to Willow that bothered him; it was the
fact of the promise itself. It was a foreclosure of all other
options without knowing yet what those options might be,
a blind vow that lacked future sight.

But then again, that was how life often worked. You
didn't always get the choices offered to you up front. "I
promise," he said, and the lawyer part of him winced.

"Willow has gone north," the Earth Mother said.
"Probably to the Deep Fell."

Ben stiffened. "The Deep Fell? Probably?"

"The bridle was a fairy magic woven long, long ago by
the land's wizards. It has passed through many hands over
the years and been all but forgotten. In the recent past,
it has been the possession of the witch Nightshade. The
witch stole it and hid it with her other treasures. She
hordes the things she finds beautiful and brings them out
to view when she wishes. But Nightshade has had the
bridle stolen from her several times by the dragon Strabo,
who also covets such treasures. The theft of the bridle
has become something of a contest between the two. It
was last in the possession of the witch."

A lot of unpleasant memories surged to the fore at the
mention of Nightshade and the Deep Fell. There were a
good many places that Ben did not care to visit again soon
in the Kingdom of Landover, but the home of the witch
was right at the top of the list.

But, then, Nightshade was gone, wasn't she, into the
fairy world . . . ?

"Willow left when I told her of the golden bridle, High
Lord," the Earth Mother interrupted his thoughts. "That
was two days ago. You must hurry if you are to catch
her."

Ben nodded absently, already aware of a lightening of
the sky beyond the swamp's unchanging murk. Dawn was
almost upon them.

"I wish you well, High Lord," the Earth Mother called.

144

THE BLACK UNICORN

She had begun to sink back into the swamp, her shape
changing rapidly as she descended. "Find Willow and
help her. Remember your promise."

Ben started to call back to her, a dozen unanswered
questions on his lips, but she was gone almost at once.
She simply sank back into the mudhole and disappeared.
Ben was left staring at the empty, placid surface.

"Well, at least I know which way Willow's gone," he
said to himself. "Now all I have to do is find my way out
of this swamp."

As if by magic, the mud puppy reappeared, slipping
from beneath a gathering of fronds. It regarded him sol-
emnly, started away, turned back again, and waited.

Ben sighed. Too bad all of his wishes weren't granted
so readily. He glanced down at Dirk. Dirk stared back at,
him.                                               '

"Want to walk north for a while?" he asked the cat.

The cat, predictably, said nothing.

•a

Hunt

•a

They were four days gone from Elderew, east and slightly
south ofRhyndweir in the heart of the Greensward, when
they came upon the hunter.

"Black it was, like the coal brought down out of the
north mines, like some shadow that hasn't ever seen the
daylight. Sweet mother! It came right past me, so close
that it seemed I might reach out and touch it. It was all
grace and beauty, leaping as if the earth couldn't hold it
to her, speeding past us all like a bit of wind that you can
feel and sometimes see, but never touch. Oh, I didn't want
to touch it, mind. I didn't want to touch something that
. . . pure. It was like watching fire—clean, but it burns
you if you come too close. I didn't want to come too
close."

The hunter's voice was quick and husky with emotions
that lay all too close to the surface of the man. He sat
with Ben and Dirk in the early'evening hours about a small
campfire built in the shelter of an oak grove and a ridge-
line. Sunset scattered red and purple across the western
horizon, and blue-gray dusk hovered east. The close of
the day was still and warm, the rain clouds of four nights
past a memory. Birds sang their evening songs in the
trees, and the smell of flowers was in the air.

145

THE BLACK UNICORN

146

Ben watched the hunter closely. The hunter was a big,
rawboned man with sun-browned, weathered skin and
calloused hands. He wore woodsman's garb with high
leather boots softened by hand for comfort and stealth,
and he carried a crossbow and bolts, long bow and arrows,
a bolo, and a skinning knife. His face was long and high-
boned, a mask of angles and flat planes with the skin
stretched tightly across and the features strained by the
tension. He had the look of a dangerous man; in other
times, he might have been.

But not this night. This night he was something less.

"I'm getting ahead of myself," the man muttered sud-
denly, an admonishment as much as a declaration. He
wiped at his forehead with one big hand and hunkered
down closer to the flames of the campfire as if to draw
their warmth. "I almost wasn't there at all, you know. I
was almost gone to the Melchor hunting bighorn. Had my
gear all packed and ready when Dain found me. He caught
up with me at the crossroads out, running like his woman
had found out the worst, calling after me like some fool.
I slowed and waited, and that made me the real fool.
'There's a hunt being organized,' he said. 'The King him-
self has called it. His people are out everywhere, drawing
the best and the quickest to net something you won't be-
lieve. A black unicorn! Yea, it's so,' he says. 'A black
unicorn that's to be hunted down if it takes all month,
and we have to chase the beast from valley's end to val-
ley's end. You got to come,' he says. 'They're giving each
man twenty pieces a day and food and, if you're the one
who snares him, another five thousand!'"

The hunter laughed sullenly. "Five thousand pieces.
Seemed like the best chance I'd ever get at the time—
more money than I'd see in ten years work any other way.
I looked at Dain and wondered if he'd lost his mind, then
saw the way his eyes were lit and knew if was all real,
that there was a hunt, that there was a bounty of five

Terry Brooks

i47

thousand, that some fool—King or otherwise—believed
there was a black unicorn out there to be caught."

Ben glanced momentarily at Dirk. The cat sat a few
feet from him, eyes fixed intently on the speaker, paws
curled up underneath so that they didn't show. He hadn't
moved or spoken since the hunter had come across their
tiny camp and asked if he might share their meal. Dirk
was to all outward appearances a normal cat. Ben couldn't
help wondering what he might be thinking.

"So we went, Dain and me—us and another two thou-
sand of the same mind. We went to Rhyndweir where the
hunt was to begin. The whole plain between the split in
the rivers was packed tight with hunters camped and wait-
ing. There was beaters and drivers, there was the Lord
Kallendbor and all the other high-and-mighty landsmen
with all their knights in armor and foot soldiers. There
was horses and mules, wagons loaded down with provi-
sions, carriers and retainers, a whole sea of moving parts
and sounds that would have frightened any other prey
from ten miles distant! Mother's blood, it was a mess! But
I stayed on anyway, still thinking about the money, but
thinking about something else now, too—thinking about
that black unicorn. There wasn't any such creature, I
knew—but what if there was? What if it was out there?
I might not catch it, but. Lord, just to see it!

"That same evening we were all called before the castle
gates. The King wasn't there; his wizard was—the one
they call Questor Thews. He was a sight! Patchwork robe
and sashes made him look like a scarecrow! And there
was this dog with him, that dressed like you and me and
walked on his hind legs. Some said he could talk, but I
never heard it. They stood up there with the Lord Kal-
lendbor and whispered to him things no one else could
hear. The wizard had a face like chalk—looked scared to
death. Not Kallendbor, though—not him. He never looks
afraid of anything, that one! Sure as death itself and ready
to pronounce judgment. He called out to us in that big,

148 THE BLACK UNICORN

booming voice you could hear for a mile on those plains.
He called out and told us that this unicorn was a real live
beast and it could be tracked and caught like any other
beast. There were enough of us and we would have it or
know the reason why! He gave us our places and the line
of sweep and sent us off to sleep. The hunt was to begin
at dawn."

The hunter paused, remembering. His eyes looked past
Ben in the growing darkness to some point distant in time
and place from where they sat now; "It was exciting, you
know. All those men gathered together like that—a hunt
greater than any I had ever heard tell. There were to be
Trolls north along the Melchor and a number of the fairy
tribes south above the lake country. They didn't seem to
think the unicorn would be south of there—don't know
why. But the plan was to start on the eastern border and
drive west, closing the ends north and south like a huge
net. Beaters and horsemen would work from the east;

hunters and snares would set up west in moving pockets.
It was a good plan."

He smiled faintly. "It started right on schedule. The
line east began to move west, clearing out everything in
its path. Hunters like myself set up in the hill country
where we could see everything that moved in the grass-
lands and beyond. Some rode chaser all along the front
and ends, flushing whatever was hidden there. It was
something, all those men, all that equipment. Looked like
the whole valley was gathered in that one huge hunt.
Looked like the whole world. The line came west all that
day from the wastelands to Rhyndweir and beyond—
beaters and chasers, horsemen and foot soldiers, wagon-
loads of provisions going back and forth from castles and
towns. Don't know how they got it organized so fast and
still made it work—but they did. Never saw a thing,
though. Camped that night in a line that stretched from
the Melchor down to Sterling Silver. Campfires burned
north to south like a big, winding snake. You could see

Terry Brooks 149

it from the hills where Dain and I were set up with the
other hunters. We stayed out of the main camps. We're
more at home up there anyway—can see as well at night
as in day and had to keep watch so that nothing sneaked
past in the dark.

"The second day went the same. We got to the western
foothills at the edge of the grasslands, but saw nothing.
Camped again and waited. Watched all that night."

Ben was thinking of the time he had wasted since leav-
ing Elderew just to get this far north. Four days. The
weather had slowed his travel in the lake country, and he
had been forced to skirt east of Sterling Silver to avoid
an encounter with the guard—his guard—because they
might recognize him as the stranger that the King had
ordered out of the country. He had been forced to travel
afoot the entire way, because he had no money for horses
and was not yet reduced to stealing. He must have missed
the hunt by less than twenty-four hours. He was beginning
to wonder what that had cost him.

The hunter cleared his throat and continued. "There
was some unpleasantness by now among the men," he
advised solemnly. "Some felt this was a waste of time.
Twenty pieces a day or not, no one wants to be part of
something foolish. The Lords were having their say, too,
griping that we weren't doing our share, that we weren't
watching as close as we should, that something might
have sneaked through. We knew that wasn't the case, but
that wasn't something they wanted to hear. So we said
we'd try harder, keep looking. But we wondered among
ourselves if thera was anything out there to look for.

"The third day we closed the line west to the moun-
tains, and that's when we found it." The hunter's eyes
had suddenly come alive, bright in the firelight with ex-
citement. "It was late afternoon, the sun screened away
by the mountains and the mist, and the patches of forest
we searched in that hill country were thick with shadows.
It was the time of day when everything seems a little un-

150 THE BLACK UNICORN

clear, when you see movement where there is none. We
were working a heavy pine grove surrounded by hard-
wood and thick with scrub and brush. There were six of
us, I think, and you could hear dozens more all about,
and the lines of beaters shouting and calling from just east
where the line was closing. It was hot in the hills—odd
for the time of day. But we were all worn down to the
bone and weary of chasing ghosts. There was a feeling
that this hunt had come down to nothing. Sweat and in-
sects made the work unpleasant now; aches and pains
slowed us. We had shoved away thoughts of the unicorn
beyond completing the hunt and getting home again. The
whole business was a joke."

He paused. "Then suddenly there was movement in
the pine—just a shadow of something, nothing more than
that. I remember thinking that my eyes were playing tricks
on me yet another time. I was going to say something to
Dain; he was working just off to my left. But I held my
tongue—too tired, maybe, to want to say anything. I just
sort of stopped what I was doing there in the brush and
the heat and I watched the place of the movement to see
if there was going to be any more."

He took a deep breath, and his jaw tightened down.
"There was this darkening of the little sunlight that re-
mained then—as if clouds had screened it away for a mo-
ment. I remember how it felt. The air was all hot and still;

the wind had died down into nothing. I was looking, and
the brush came apart and there it was—the unicorn, all
black and fluid like water. It seemed so tiny. It stood there
staring at me—I don't know how long. I could see the
goat's feet, the lion's tail, the mane that ran down its neck
and back, the fetlocks, that ridged horn. It was just as the
old stories described it—but more beautiful than they
could ever make it. Sweet mother, it was glorious! The
others saw it, too, a few of them anyway. Dain caught a
glimpse; another two said they saw it close up. But not

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151

as close as me, Lord! No, I was right next to it, it seemed!
I was right there!

"Then it bolted. No, not bolted—it didn't flee like that.
It bounded up and seemed to fly right past me; all that
motion and grace, like the shadow of some bird in flight
cast down on the earth by the sun passing. It came by me
in the blink of an eye—whisk!—and it was gone. I stood
there looking after it, wondering if I'd really seen it, know-
ing I had, thinking how marvelous it was to view, thinking
it truly was real..."

He choked on the words as they tumbled out one after
the other, released from his throat in a rush of strange
emotion. His hands were raised before him, knotting with
the intensity of the telling of his story. Ben quit breathing
momentarily, awed by what he was seeing, not wanting
to break the spell.

The hunter's eyes lowered then, and the hands fol-
lowed. "I heard later that it flew right into the teeth of
the chase. I heard it went past the whole mess of them
like wind through a forest of rooted trees. Dozens saw it.
There was a chance to hold it, maybe—but I kind of won-
der. It came right over the nets. There was a chase, but
... but you know what?" The eyes lifted again. "The
unicorn came right up against the Lords of the Greens-
ward and the King's men—right up against them, sweet
mother! And the wizard—the very one that organized all
this—conjured up some nonsense and it rained flowers
and butterflies all over everything. The chase broke up
in the confusion, and the unicorn was gone before you
could spit!" He smiled'suddenly. "Flowers and butter-
flies—can you imagine that?"

Ben smiled with him. He could.

The hunter drew up his knees then and hugged them.
The smile disappeared. "That was it, then. That was all
she wrote. The hunt was done. Everyone sort of broke
up and went away after that. There was some talk of con-
tinuing, of taking the whole line back east again, but it

THE BLACK UNICORN

never came to anything. No one wanted any part of that.
It was like the heart had gone out of the chase. It was
like everyone was glad the unicorn got away. Or maybe
it was just that no one thought it could ever be caught
anyway."

The hard eyes lifted. "Strange times we live in. The
King sacked the wizard and the dog, I hear. Threw them
out the minute he heard what had happened. Just dis-
missed them out of hand for what the wizard had done—
or what he thought he'd done. I don't think the wizard
could have done much one way or the other anyway.
Not with that creature, not with it. No one could have. It
was too much a ghost for anything mortal, too much a
dream . . ."

There were sudden tears in the hunter's eyes. "I think
I touched it, you know, when it went past me. I think I
touched it. Sweet mother, I can still feel the silk of its
skin brushing me, like fire, like ... a woman's touch,
maybe. I had a woman touch me once that way, long ago.
The unicorn felt like that. Now I can't forget it. I try to
think of other things, try to be reasonable about the fact
of it having happened at all, but the sense of it stays with
me." He tightened his face against what he was feeling.
"I been looking for it on my own since I left, think-
ing maybe one man could have better luck than a whole
hunting party. I don't want to catch it exactly; I don't
think I could. I just want to see it again. I just want to
maybe touch it one more time—just once, just for a
moment..."

He trailed off again. The campfire sparked suddenly in
the stillness, a sharp crackling. No one moved. Darkness
had settled down across the valley, and the last daylight
had dropped from view. Stars and moons had appeared,
their light faint and distant, their colors muted. Ben
glanced down at Edgewood Dirk. The eat had his eyes
closed.

Terry Brooks

i53

"ljust want to touch it once more," the hunter repeated
softly. "Just for a moment."

He stared vacantly at Ben. The ghost of who and what
he had been was swallowed in the silence that followed.

That same night Willow dreamed again of the black uni-
corn. She slept huddled close to the faithful Parsnip in a
gathering of pine at the edge of the Deep Fell, concealed
within a covering of boughs and shadows. Her journey
north from Elderew was five days gone. She was now
only hours ahead of Ben Holiday. The hunt for the black
unicorn had delayed her for almost a day as it swept the
hill country west of the Greensward and turned her east.
She had no idea what the hunt was about. She had no
idea that Ben was searching for her.

The dream came at midnight, stealing into her sleep like
a mother to her slumbering child's room, a presence that
was warm and comforting. There was no fear this time,
only sadness. Willow moved through forest trees and
grassland spaces, and the black unicorn watched, as if a
ghost come from some nether region to trail the living. It
appeared and faded like sunshine from behind a cloud,
now in the shade of a massive old maple, now in the lea
of a copse of fir. It was never all visible, but only in part.
It was black and featureless save for its eyes—and its eyes
were a mirror of all the sadness that ever was and would
ever be.

The eyes made Willow cry, and her tears stained her
cheeks as she slept. The eyes were troubled, filled with
pain she could only imagine, haunted beyond anything she
had believed possible. The black unicorn of this dream
was no demon spawn; it was a delicate, wondrous crea-
ture that somehow had been terribly misused . . .

She came awake with a start, the image of the unicorn
clearly etched in her mind, its eyes fixed and staring. Par-
snip slept next to her, undisturbed. Dawn was still hours
away, and she shivered with the night's chill. Her slim

THE BLACK UNICORN

i54

body trembled at the whisper of the dream's words in her
memory, and she felt the magic of their presence in her
fairy way.

This dream was real, she realized suddenly. This dream
was the truth.

She straightened back against the pine's roughened
trunk, swallowed the dryness in her throat, and forced
herself to consider what the dream had shown her. Some-
thing required it—the eyes of the unicorn, perhaps. They
sought something from her. It was no longer enough to
think simply of retrieving the golden bridle and carrying
it to Ben. That was the command of her first dream, the
dream that had brought her on this quest—but the truth
of that dream was now in doubt. The unicorn of that
dream was entirely different than the unicorn of this. One
was demon, the other victim. One was pursuer, the other
. . . hunted? She thought perhaps so. There was a need
for help in the unicorn's eyes. It was almost as if it was
begging her for that help.

And she knew she must give it.

She shuddered violently. What was she thinking? If she
even came close to the unicorn, she could be lost. She
should forget this madness! She should go to Ben . . .

She let the unfinished thought trail off, huddled down
against the night and the stillness, and wrestled with her
indecision. She wished her mother were there to comfort
her or that she could seek again the counsel of the Earth
Mother.

She wished most of all for Ben.

But none of them was there. Except for Parsnip, she
was alone.

The moments slipped by. Suddenly she rose, a sound-
less shadow, left Parsnip asleep in the gathering of pines,
and disappeared silently into the Deep Fell. She went not
on reason, but on instinct, without doubt or fear, but with
certainty that all would be well and she would be kept
safe.

Terry Brooks i55

By dawn, she had returned. She did not have the golden
bridle in her possession, but she knew now where it was.
Her fairy senses had told her what even the Earth Mother
could not. The bridle had been stolen yet again.

She woke Parsnip, gathered together her few things,
cast a brief glance back at the dark bowl of the hollows,
and started walking east.

B- •B

Thieves

a.

.B

When Ben Holiday and Edgewood Dirk awoke the fol-
lowing morning, the hunter was gone. Neither had heard
him leave. He had departed without a word, disappearing
so completely that it was almost as if he had never been.
Even his face was just a vague memory for Ben. It was
only his story of the hunt for the black unicorn that lin-
gered on, still vivid, still haunting.

Breakfast was a solemn affair. "I hope he finds what
he's looking for," Ben muttered at one point.

"He can't," Dirk replied softly. "It doesn't exist."

Ben was beginning to wonder about that. The black
unicorn seemed as elusive as smoke and about as sub-
stantive. The unicorn was seen, but never for more than
a few moments and never as more than a fleeting shadow.
It was a legend that had assumed a scant few of the trap-
pings of reality, but which remained for all intents and
purposes little more than a vision. It was altogether pos-
sible that a vision was all the unicorn was—some strayed
bit of magic that took form but never body. In Landover,
you never knew.

He thought about asking Dirk, but then decided against
it. Dirk wouldn't give him a straight answer if he knew
one, and he was tired of playing word games with the cat.
156

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157

He decided to change the subject.

' 'Dirk, I've been giving some thought to what the Earth
Mother told us about the golden bridle," he said when
breakfast was finished. "She told Willow that it was last
in the possession of Nightshade, but she didn't say any-
thing about what had become of the witch since I sent her
into the fairy mists." He paused. "You knew I had done
that, didn't you? That I had sent Nightshade into the
mists?"

Dirk, seated on an old log, shifted his front paws ex-
perimentally. "I knew."

"She sent my friends into Abaddon, and I decided to
give her a taste of her own medicine," he went on by way
of explanation. "I was given lo Dust by the fairies, a
powder that, if breathed, made you subject to the com-
mands of the one who fed you the Dust. I used it later on
the dragon Strabo, too, as a matter of fact. At any rate,
I used it on Nightshade first and caused her to change
herself into a crow and fly off into the mists." Again he
paused. "But I never knew what happened to her after
that."

"This rather boring recapitulation is leading some-
where, I trust?" Dirk sniffed.

Ben flushed. "I was wondering whether or not Night-
shade had found her way out of the mists and back into
the Deep Fell. It might help if we knew that before we
waltzed blindly on in."

Dirk took a long moment to clean his face, causing
Ben's flush to heighten further with impatience. At last
the cat looked up again. "I have not been down into the
Deep Pell myself in quite some time, High Lord. But I
understand that Nightshade might well be back."

Ben took a moment to let the news sink in. The last
thing he needed just now was an encounter with Night-
shade. He no longer had the medallion to protect him—
if indeed it could protect him anyway from a creature as
evil as the witch. If she recognized him, he was dead.

158 THE BLACK UNICORN

Even if she didn't, she was hardly likely to welcome him
with open arms. And she was hardly likely to welcome
Willow either—especially once she learned what the
sylph was after. She wasn't about to hand over the golden
bridle, however convincing the arguments Willow might
offer. She would probably turn Willow into a toad—and
turn him into a toad. He thought wistfully of the lo Dust
and wished he had just a single handful. That would even
the odds considerably.

His eyes fixed intently on Dirk. "What do you think
about a quick trip back into the fairy world?" he asked
abruptly. "I did it once; I could do it again. The fairies
would recognize me, magic or no magic. Maybe they
could help me change back again. At the very least, they
could give me another pod of the lo Dust to use on Night-
shade. After all, I promised the Earth Mother I would do
my best to look after Willow, and I can't look after her
if I can't look after myself."

Dirk studied him a moment, blinked and yawned.
"Your problem is not one anyone else can help you
with—least of all the fairies."

"Why not?" Ben snapped, irritated with the cat's in-
sufferable smugness.

"Because, in the first place, the magic that has changed
you is your own—as you have been told at least half-a-
dozen times now. And in the second place, the fairies
won't necessarily help you just because you ask. The fair-
ies involve themselves in people's lives when and where
they choose and not otherwise." The prim muzzle wrin-
kled distastefully. "You knew that before you asked the
question, High Lord."

Ben fumed silently. The cat was right, of course—he
had known. The fairies hadn't interceded in Landover's
problems when he had first come into the valley and the
tarnish and the Iron Mark had threatened, and they were
unlikely to do so now. He was King, and the problems
facing him were his.

Terry Brooks i59

So how was he going to solve them?

"C'mon," he ordered suddenly, springing to his feet.
"I have an idea that might work." He pulled on his boots,
straightened his clothing, and waited for Dirk to ask what
the idea was. The cat didn't. Finally, he said, "Don't you
want to know the details?"

The cat stretched and jumped down from its perch to
stand next to him. "No."

Ben ground his teeth and silently swore that, all right
then, it would be a cold day somewhere damn hot before
he would say another word about it!

They walked north through the early morning, skirting
the grasslands of the Greensward, veering slightly east
toward the foothills that lay below the Melchor. Ben led,
but as usual Dirk seemed to know where they were going
anyway and often traveled a parallel course, picking his
way through the high grasses, seemingly oblivious to what
Ben was about. Dirk continued to be a mystery without
a solution, but Ben forced himself to concentrate on the
task at hand rather than dwell on Dirk, because dwelling
on Dirk just made him nuts. It was easier to accept the
cat the way one accepted changes in the weather.

The grasslands were still marked from the passing of
the hunt. Booted feet had flattened portions of the tall
grass and broken down the scrub. Debris from the pro-
vision wagons littered the plains, and the ashes of huge
campfires scarred the multicolored meadows. The
Greensward had the look of a giant picnic ground at the
close of July fourth. Ben wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Meeks was already using the land selfishly again.

There were other signs of misuse as well. Signs of the
wilt that had marked the valley in his early days in Lan-
dover had returned to the plants and trees—signs that
could only have been brought about by a lessening of the
power of the King's magic. When there was no King in
Landover, the land lost strength; he had learned that on
his first visit. Meeks was not the true King, despite any

i6o THE BLACK UNICORN

outward appearance, and Landover was beginning to
show the effects The signs were tiny yet, but they would
grow worse. Eventually, the tarnish would return to Ster-
ling Silver and the whole valley would begin to sicken.
Ben pressed ahead at a quicker pace, as if somehow speed
might help.

A caravan of traders traveling north into the Melchor
to obtain metal implements and weapons from the Trolls
crossed their path around midday, and they shared lunch.
The gossip was all connected with the hunt for the black
unicorn and the strange events of the past few days. The
King had gone into seclusion, refusing to see anyone,
even the Lords of the Greensward. Public works projects
had been put on hold, judicial and grievance councils had
been dismissed, envoys had been sent home from Sterling
Silver, and everything in general had come to a dead halt.
No one knew what was happening. There were rumors
of demons flying the night skies, monstrous things that
carried off livestock and stray children in the manner that
the dragons once had. There were even rumors that the
King himself was responsible, that he had made some
devil's bargain to give the demons of Abaddon their way
in Landover if they in turn would bring him the unicorn.

Everything seemed to revolve around the unicorn. The
King had let it be known in no uncertain terms that he
meant to have the creature, and the one who brought it
to him would be hugely rewarded.

"If you can catch smoke, you're a rich man," one
trader joked, and the others all laughed.

Ben didn't laugh. He took his leave hastily and contin-
ued north at an even quicker pace. Things were getting
out of hand, and a good part of that was clearly his fault.

By midaftemoon, he was in the country of the G'home
Gnomes.

The G'home Gnomes were a burrow people he had en-
countered during his early days as Landover's King. They
were small, furry, grimy creatures that looked something

Terry Brooks 161

like overgrown moles. They were scavengers and thieves
and they couldn't be trusted any farther than your pet dog
could be with the evening roast. As a matter of fact, they
couldn't be trusted with your pet dog, because they con-
sidered dogs, cats, and other small domesticated animals
quite a delicacy. Abemathy considered the G'home
Gnomes cannibals. Questor Thews considered them trou-
ble. Everyone considered them a nuisance. The appel-
lation "G'home Gnome" came from the almost
universally expressed demand of those who had the mis-
fortune to come in contact with them: "Go home,
gnome!" Two of these gnomes, Fillip and Sot, had made
a pilgrimage to Sterling Silver to seek Ben's aid in freeing
some of their people from Crag Trolls after the Trolls had
carted the unfortunates away for stealing and eating a
number of their pet tree sloths. Ben had almost lost his
life in that venture, but the G'home Gnomes had proven
to be among the most loyal of his subjects—if not the
most reformed.

And Fillip and Sot had once confided to him that they
knew the Deep Fell as they knew the backs of their hands.

"That's exactly the kind of help we need," Ben told
Dirk, despite his vow not to tell the cat anything. "Night-
shade will never be persuaded to give up the bridle will-
ingly. Willow has to know that, too—but that won't stop
her from trying. She'll probably be direct rather than cir-
cumspect; she's too honest for her own good. Whatever
the case, if she's gone into the Deep Fell, she's likely in
trouble. She'll need help. Fillip and Sot can let us know.
They can sneak down without being seen. If Willow or
Nightshade is there, they can tell us. If the bridle is there,
perhaps they can steal it for us. Don't you see? They can
go where we can't."

"Speak for yourself," Dirk replied.

"Do you have a better plan?" Ben snapped back
immediately.

THE BLACK UNICORN

Dirk was oblivious to his anger. "I have no plan," he
answered. "This is your problem, not mine."

"Thank you very much. I gather you wouldn't consider
undertaking this reconnaissance and theft yourself then?"

"Hardly. I am your companion, not your lackey."

"YOU are a pain, Dirk."

"I am a cat, High Lord."

Ben terminated the discussion with a scowl and stalked
off toward the burrow community. The G'home Gnomes
lived in towns in the same manner as prairie dogs, and
sentinels warned of his approach long before he could see
anything. By the time he reached the town, there wasn't
a G'bome Gnome anywhere—just a lot of empty-looking
holes. Ben walked to the center of the town, seated him-
self on a stump and waited. He had been here a number
of times since becoming King, and he knew how the game
was played.

A few minutes later, Dirk joined him. The cat curled
up beside him without a word and closed its eyes against
the late afternoon sun.

Shortly after that, a furry face poked up from one of
the burrows. Eyes squinted weakly against the daylight,
and a wrinkled nose sniffed the air tentatively.

"Good day, sir," the gnome addressed Ben and tipped
his battered leather cap with its single red feather.

"Good day," Ben replied.

"Out for a walk, are you, sir?"

"Out for a healthy dose of fresh air and sunshine. Good
for what ails you."

"Yes, oh yes indeed, good for what ails you. Must be
careful of colds that settle in the throat and chest during
the passing of fall."

"Certainly must. Colds can be tricky." They were
dancing on eggshells, and Ben let the music play itself
out. The G'home Gnomes were like this with strangers—
scared to death. One always tested you. If you posed no
threat, the rest came out. If any menace was sensed, you

Terry Brooks 163

never saw more than the one. "I hope your family is
well?" Ben went on, trying to sound casual. "And your
community?"

"Oh, quite well, thank you, sir. All quite well."

"That's good to hear."

"Yes, good to hear." The gnome glanced about fur-
tively, looking to see if Ben was alone, looking to see if
he was hiding anything. "You must have walked quite a
distance north from the Greensward, sir. Are you a
craftsman?"

"Not exactly."

"A trader, then?"

Ben hesitated a moment and then nodded. "On occa-
sion, I am."

"Oh?" The gnome's squint seemed to deepen. "But
you do not appear to have any wares with you this trip,
sir."

"Ah! Well, sometimes appearances are deceiving.
Some trading wares can be quite small, you know." He
patted his tunic. "Pocket-sized."

The gnome's front teeth flashed nervously out of its
grimy face. "Yes, of course—that is so. Could it be that
you are interested in trading here, sir?"

"Could be." Ben set the hook and waited.

The gnome did not disappoint him. "With someone in
particular?"

Ben shrugged. "I have done some business in the past
with two members of your community—Fillip and Sot.
Do you know them?"

The gnome blinked. "Yes, Fillip and Sot live here."

Ben smiled his most disarming smile. "Are they
about?"

The gnome smiled back. "Perhaps. Yes, perhaps.
Would you wait a moment, please? Just a moment?"

He ducked back into his burrow and was gone. Ben
waited. The minutes slipped past and no one appeared.
Ben kept his place on the stump and tried to look as if he

164 THE BLACK UNICORN

were enjoying himself. He could feel eyes watching him
from everywhere. Doubts began to creep into his mind.
What if Fillip and Sot took a look at him and decided he
was no one they had ever seen? After all, he wasn't the
Ben Holiday they knew any longer. He was a stranger—
and not a particularly well-dressed one either. He glanced
down at his clothing, reminded of his sorry state. He made
a rather shabby-looking trader, he thought ruefully. Fillip
and Sot might decide he wasn't worth their bother. They
might decide to stay right where they were. And if he
couldn't get close enough to talk to them, he wasn't about
to have any success obtaining their help.

The afternoon shadows lengthened. Ben's patience
simmered like hot water over an open fire. He glanced
irritably at Edgewood Dirk. No help was there. Eyes
closed, paws tucked under, breathing slowed to nothing,
the cat might have been sleeping or it might have been
stuffed.

The burrow holes continued to yawn back at him in
empty disinterest. The sun continued to slip into the west-
ern hills. No one appeared.

Ben had just about decided to throw in the towel when
a furry, dirt-lined face poked up suddenly from a burrow
opening not a dozen yards away, closely followed by a
second directly beside it. Two snouts sniffed the late af-
ternoon air warily. Two pairs of weakened eyes peered
cautiously about.

Ben heaved a sigh of relief. They were Fillip and Sot.

The squinting eyes fixed on him.

"Good day, sir," said Fillip.

"Good day, sir," said Sot.

"Good day, indeed." Ben beamed, sitting up straight
again on the stump.

"You wish to trade, sir?" asked Fillip.

"You wish to trade with us?" asked Sot.

"Yes. Yes, I most certainly do." Ben paused. "Would

Terry Brooks 165

you gentlemen mind coming over here? That way I can
be certain you understand what it is that I have to trade."

The G'home Gnomes glanced at each other, then
emerged into the fading sunlight. Stout, hairy bodies were
clothed in what looked like Salvation Army rejects.
Bearded, ferretlike faces with tiny, squinted eyes and
wrinkled noses tested the air like weather vanes directed
by the wind. Dirt and grime covered them from head to
foot.

Fillip and Sot without a doubt.

Ben waited until they had stopped just a few feet in
front of him, beckoned them closer still, then said, "I
want you to listen to me very closely, do you understand?
Just listen. I'm Ben Holiday. I'm High Lord ofLandover.
A magic has been used to change my appearance, but
that's only temporary. I'll change myself back sooner or
later. When I do, I'll remember who helped me and who
didn't. And I need your help right now."

He glanced from one furry face to the other. The
gnomes were staring at him voicelessly, eyes squinting,
noses testing. They looked for a moment at each other,
then back again at Ben.

"You are not the High Lord," said Fillip.

"No, you are not," agreed Sot.

"Yes, I am," Ben insisted.

"The High Lord would not be here alone," said Fillip.

"The High Lord would come with his friends, the wiz-
ard, the talking dog, the kobolds, and the girl Willow—
the pretty sylph," said Sot.

"The High Lord would come with his guards and re-
tainers," said Fillip.

"The High Lord would come with his standards of of-
fice," said Sot.

"You are not the High Lord," repeated Fillip.

"No, you are not," repeated Sot.

Ben took a deep breath. "I lost all those things to a bad
wizard—the wizard who brought me into Landover in the

i66 THE BLACK UNICORN

first place, the wizard we saw in the crystal after we freed
ourselves from the Crag Trolls—remember? You were
the ones who came to Sterling Silver to ask my help in
the first place. I went with you to help you free your
people from the Trolls—the same gnomes who had eaten
the furry tree sloths that were the Trolls' favorite pets.
Now if I'm not the High Lord, how do I know all this?"

Fillip and Sot looked at each other again. They looked
a bit uncertain this time.

"We don't know," admitted Fillip.

"No, we have no idea," agreed Sot.

"But you are not the High Lord," repeated Fillip.

"No, you are not," agreed Sot.

Ben took another deep breath. "I smashed the crystal
against some rocks after we discovered its purpose. Ques-
tor Thews admitted his part in its use. You were there,
Abernathy and Willow were there, the kobolds Bunion
and Parsnip were there. Then we went down into the Deep
Fell. You took Willow and me in. Remember? We used
lo Dust to turn Nightshade back into a crow and fly her
into the fairy mists. Then we went after the dragon Strabo.
Remember? How could I know this if I'm not the High
Lord?"

The gnomes were shifting their feet as if fire ants had
crawled into their ruined boots.

"We don't know," Fillip said again.

"No, we don't," Sot agreed.

"Nevertheless, you are not the High Lord," repeated
Fillip.

"No, you are not," repeated Sot.

Ben's patience slipped several notches despite his re-
solve. "How do you know that I'm not the High Lord?"
he asked tightly.

Fillip and Sot fidgeted nervously. Their small hands
wrung together, and their eyes shifted here and there and
back again.

"You don't smell like him," said Fillip finally.

Terry Brooks 167

"No, you smell like us," said Sot.

Ben stared, then flushed, then lost whatever control he
had managed to exercise up to this point. "Now you listen
to me! I am the High Lord, I am Ben Holiday, I am ex-
actly who I said I was, and you had better accept that
right now or you are going to be in the biggest trouble of
your entire lives, bigger even than when you stole and ate
that pet dog at the celebration banquet after the defeat of
the Iron Mark! I'll see you hung out to dry, damn it! Look
at me!" He wrenched the medallion from his tunic, cov-
ering the face and the image of Meeks with his palm, and
thrust it forward like a weapon. "Would you like to see
what I can do to you with this?"

Fillip and Sot collapsed prone upon the earth, tiny bod-
ies shaking from head to foot. They went down so fast it
looked as if their feet had been yanked from beneath them.

"Great High Lord!" cried Fillip.

"Mighty High Lord!" wailed Sot.

"Our lives are yours!" sobbed Fillip.

"Yours!" sniffled Sot.

"Forgive us, High Lord!" pleaded Fillip.

"Forgive us!" echoed Sot.

Now that's much better, Ben thought, more than
slightly astonished at the rapid turnabout. A little intim-
idation seemed to go a whole lot further than a reasonable
explanation with the G'home Gnomes. He was a bit
ashamed of himself for having had to resort to such tac-
tics, but he was more desperate than anything.

"Get up," he told them. They climbed to their feet and
stood looking at him fearfully. "It's all right," he assured
them gently. "I understand why this is confusing, so let's
just put it all behind us. All right?" Two ferretlike faces
nodded as one. "Fine. Now we have a problem. Willow—
the pretty sylph—may be in a lot of trouble, and we have
to help her the same way she helped us when the Crag
Trolls had us in their pens. Remember?" He was using
that word "remember" a lot, but dealing with gnomes

i68 THE BLACK UNICORN

was like dealing with small children. "She's gone down
into the Deep Fell in search of something, and we have
to find her to be certain that she's all right."

"I do not like the Deep Fell, High Lord," complained
Fillip hesitantly.

"Nor I," agreed Sot.

"I know you don't," Ben acknowledged. "I don't like
it either. But you two have told me before that you can
go down there without beeing seen. I can't do that. All I
want you to do is to go down there long enough to look
around and see if Willow is there—and to look for some-
thing that I need that's hidden down there. Fair enough?
Just look around. No one has to know you're even there."

"Nightshade came back to the Deep Fell, High Lord,"
announced Fillip softly, confirming Ben's worst fears.

"We have seen her, High Lord," agreed Sot.

"She hates everything now," said Fillip.

"But you most," added Sot.

There was a period of silence. Ben tried to imagine for
a moment the extent of Nightshade's hatred for him and
could not. It was probably just as well.

He bent close to the gnomes. "You've been back to
the Deep Fell, then?" Fillip and Sot nodded miserably.
"And you weren't seen, were you?" Again, the nods.
"Then you can do this favor for me, can't you? You can
do it for me and for Willow. It will be a favor that I won't
forget, I can promise you that."

There was another long moment of silence as Fillip and
Sot looked at him, then at each other. They bent their
heads close and whispered. Their nervousness had been
transformed into agitation.

Finally they looked back at him again, eyes glinting.

"If we do this, High Lord, can we have the cat?" asked
Fillip.

"Yes, can we have the cat?" echoed Sot.

Ben stared. He had forgotten Dirk momentarily. He
glanced down at the cat, and then back at the gnomes.

Terry Brooks                                 169

»<

1
^

"Don't even think about it," he advised. "That cat is not
what it seems."

Fillip and Sot nodded reluctantly, but their eyes re-
mained locked on Dirk.

"I'm warning you," Ben said pointedly.

Again the gnomes nodded, but Ben had the distinct feel-
ing that he was addressing a brick wall.

He shook his head helplessly. "Okay. We'll sleep here
tonight and leave at daylight." He took an extra moment
to draw their attention. "Try to remember what I just said
about the cat. All right?"

A third time the gnomes nodded. But their eyes never
left Dirk.

Ben ate another Spartan meal of Bonnie Blues, drank
spring water, and watched the sun sink into the horizon
and night settle over the valley. He thought of the old
world and the old life and wondered for the first time in
a long time whether he might have been better off staying
where he was instead of coming here. Then he pushed his
maudlin thoughts aside, wrapped himself in his travel
cloak, and settled down against the base of the stump for
an uncomfortable night's rest.

Dirk hadn't moved from the stump top. Dirk looked
dead.

Sometime during the night there was a shriek so dread-
ful and so prolonged that it brought Ben right up off the
ground. It sounded as if it were almost on top of him; but
when he finally got his bearings and peered bleary-eyed
about the campsite, all he found was Dirk crouched down
atop the stump with his hackles up and a sort of steam
rising from his back.

In the distance, something—or someone—whimpered.

"Those gnomes are persistent to the point of stupid-
ity," Dirk commented softly before settling back down
again, eyes glistening in the night like emerald fire.

The whimpering faded and Ben lay back down as well.

170 THE BLACK UNICORN

So much for his well-intentioned advice to Fillip and Sot.
Some lessons had to be learned the hard way.

That same night found an altogether different scene un-
folding some miles south of Rhyndweir at an abandoned
stock pen and line shack perched on a ridgeline that over-
looked the eastern expanse of the Greensward. A sagging
roof and shutteriess windows marked the line shack as a
derelict, and the stock pen was missing rails in half-a-
dozen spots. Shadows draped the whole in a web of black
lace. A white-bearded scarecrow and an Ozian shaggy
dog, both decidely unkempt, bracketed a brightly burning
campfire built a dozen yards or so from the line shack
and hurtled accusations at each other with a vehemence
that seemed to refute utterly the fact that they had ever
been best friends. A wiry, monkey-faced creature with
elephant ears and big teeth watched the dispute in be-
mused silence.

"Do not attempt to ask my understanding of what you
have done!" the shaggy dog was saying to the scarecrow.
"I hold you directly responsible for our predicament and
am not inclined to be in the least forgiving!"

"Your lack of compassion is matched only by your lack
of character!" the scarecrow replied. "Another man—or
dog—would be more charitable, I am sure!"

"Ha! Another man—or dog—would have bidden fa-
rewell to you long ago! Another man—or dog—would
have found decent company in which to share his exile!"

"I see! Well, it is not too late for you to find other
company—decent or not—if such is your inclination!"

"Rest assured, it is under consideration right now!"

The two glowered at each other through the red haze
of the campfire, their thoughts as black as the ashes of
the crumbling wood. The monkey-faced watcher re-
mained a mute spectator. Night hung about all three like
a mourner's shroud, and the ridgeline was spectral and
still.

Terry Brooks

171

Abemathy shoved his glasses further back on his nose
and picked up the argument once more, his tone of voice
a shade softer. "What I find difficult to understand is why
you let the unicorn get away, wizard. You had the crea-
ture before you, you knew the words that would snare it,
and what did you do? You called down a thunderburst of
butterflies and flowers. What kind of nonsense was that?"

Questor Thews tightened his jaw defiantly. "The kind
of nonsense that you, of all people, should understand."

"I am inclined to think that you simply panicked. I am
compelled to believe that you simply failed to master the
magic when you needed to. And what do you mean, 'the
kind of nonsense that I should understand'?"

"I mean, the kind of nonsense that gives all creatures
the chance to be what they should be, despite what others
think best for them!"

The scribe frowned. "One moment. Are you telling me
that you intentionally let the unicorn escape? That the
butterflies and the flowers were not accidental?"

The wizard pulled on his chin whiskers irritably. "Con-
gratulations on your astute, if belated, grasp of the ob-
vious! That is exactly what I am telling you!"

There was a long silence between them as they studied
each other. They had been traveling together since day-
break, inwardly seething at the turn of events that had
brought them to this end, outwardly distanced from each
other by their anger. This was the first time that the sub-
ject of the unicorn's escape had been discussed openly.

The moment of testing passed. Questor looked away
first, sighed, and pulled his patchwork robes closer about
him to ward off the deepening night chill. His face was
worn and lined from worry. His clothing was dusty and
torn. Abemathy looked no better. They had been stripped
of everything. Their dismissal had come immediately after
the High Lord had learned of their failure to capture the
black unicorn. The High Lord had given them no chance
to explain their actions nor had he offered any explanation

THE BLACK UNICORN

17-2

for his. They had been met on their return to Sterling
Silver by a messenger, who had delivered a curt hand-
written directive. They were relieved of their positions.
They could go henceforth where they chose—but they
were never to return to the court.

Bunion, apparently given his choice in the matter, went
with them. He had offered no reason.

"It was not my intention when we began the hunt to
allow the unicorn to escape," Questor continued softly.
"It was my intention that it be captured and delivered to
the High Lord just as he had ordered. I believed it a dan-
gerous undertaking because the black unicorn has long
been reported a thing of ill fortune. But, then again, the
High Lord has shown an extraordinary capacity for turn-
ing ill fortune to his advantage." He paused. "I admit I
was bothered by his insistence on the unicorn's immediate
capture and by his refusal to explain that insistence to us.
Yet I still intended that the unicorn be taken." He took
a deep breath. "But when I saw the beast before me in
that wood, standing there—when I saw what it was . . .
I could not allow it to be taken. I don't know why, I just
couldn't. No, that is not true—I do know why. It wasn't
right. I could feel inside me that it wasn't right. Didn't
you sense it, too, Abemathy? The unicorn was not meant
to belong to the High Lord. It was not meant to belong
to anyone." He glanced up again uncertainly. "So I used
the magic to see that it wouldn't. I let it escape."

Abemathy snapped at something that flew past him,
then shoved his dust-encrusted glasses back on his nose
and sneezed. "Well, you should have said so sooner, wiz-
ard, instead of letting me think that your magic had simply
bested you once again. This, at least, I can understand."

"Can you?" Questor shook his head doubtfully. "I
wish I could. I have acted against the wishes of the High
Lord when I am sworn to his service, and the only reason
I can give is that serving him in this instance felt wrong.
He was right to dismiss me from the court."

Terry Brooks

i73

"And me also, I suppose?"

"No, he should not have dismissed you. You had no
part in what happened."

"The fact of the matter is, he was wrong to dismiss
either of us!"

Questor shrugged helplessly. "He is the High Lord.
Who are we to question his judgment?"

"Humph!" Abemathy snorted derisively. "The hunt
was an ill-advised exercise of judgment, if ever there was
one. He knew the history of the black unicorn. We told
him the beast would not be trapped in a hunt, and he
completely ignored us. He has never done that before,
wizard. I tell you, he is obsessed with this beast. He thinks
of nothing else. He has spoken of Willow only once—and
that a tirade over her failure to return to him with the
golden bridle. He ignores his duties, he keeps to his
rooms, and he confides in no one. Not a single mention
has been made of the books of magic since you returned
them to him. I had hoped that the High Lord might give
at least some brief consideration into looking for a way
to use them to return me to my former self. Once, the
High Lord would have done so without even having to
think about it . . ."

The scribe trailed off self-consciously, glowering at the
flames of the little fire. "Well, no matter. The point is,
he is not himself these days, Questor Thews. He is not
himself."

The wizard's owlish face twisted thoughtfully. "No."
He glanced momentarily at Bunion and was surprised to
find the kobold nodding in agreement. "No, he most cer-
tainly is not."

"Hasn't been since . . ."

"Since we discovered that impostor in his bed
chamber?"

"Since then, yes. Since that night."

They were silent again for a moment. Then their eyes
met, and they were startled by what they found mirrored

THE BLACK UNICORN

174

there. "Is it possible that ..." Abernathy began
uncertainly.

"That the impostor was the High Lord?" Questor fin-
ished. He frowned his deepest frown. "I would not have
thought so before, but now ..."

"There is no way we can be certain, of course," Ab-
ernathy interrupted quickly.

"No, no way," Questor agreed.

The fire crackled and spit, the smoke blew across them
with a shift in the wind, and sparks danced into the ashes.
From somewhere far away, a night bird sounded a long,
mournful cry that brought shivers down Questor's spine.
He exchanged quick glances with Abernathy and Bunion.

"I hate sleeping out-of-doors," Abernathy muttered.
"I don't like fleas and ticks and crawly things trying to
assume occupancy of my fur."

"I have a plan," Questor said suddenly.

Abernathy gave him a long, hard look, the kind he al-
ways gave when confronted with a pronouncement he
would just as soon live without. "I am almost afraid to
ask what it is, wizard," he responded finally.

"We will go to the dragon. We will go to Strabo."

Bunion's teeth gleamed in a frightening grin. "That is
a plan?" demanded Abernathy, horrified.

Questor leaned forward eagerly. "But it makes perfect
sense that we should go to Strabo. Who knows more about
unicorns than dragons? Once they were the greatest of
enemies—the oldest adversaries in the world of fairy.
Now the black unicorn is the last of his kind, and Strabo
the last of his. They share a common cause, a natural
affinity! Surely we can learn something of the unicorn
from the dragon—enough perhaps to unravel its mystery
and to discover its purpose in coming to handover!"

Abernathy stared in disbelief. "But the dragon doesn't
like us, Questor Thews! Have you forgotten that? He will
roast us for a midday snack!" He paused. "Besides, what

Terry Brooks

i75

good will it do to learn anything more about the unicorn?
The beast has caused us trouble enough as it is."

"But if we understand its purpose, we might discover
a reason for the High Lord's obsession," Questor replied
quickly. "We might even find a way to reinstate ourselves
at court. It is not inconceivable. And the dragon will not
cause us harm. He will be happy to visit with us once he
has learned our purpose in coming. Do not forget, Ab-
ernathy, that dragons and wizards share a common back-
ground as well. The nature and duration of our
professional relationship has always dictated a certain de-
gree of mutual respect."

Abernathy's lip curled. "What a lot of nonsense!"
Questor barely seemed to hear him. There was a far-
away look in his eye. "There were games played between
wizards and dragons in the old days that would challenge
the faint of heart, I can tell you. Games of magic and
games of skill." He cocked his head slightly. "A game
or two might be necessary here if Strabo chooses to be
obdurate. Theft of knowledge is a skill I have mastered
well, and it would be fun to test myself once more ..."
"You are mad!" Abernathy was appalled.

But Questor's enthusiasm was not to be dampened. He
came to his feet, excitement in his eyes as he paced the
circle of the fire. "Well, no matter. What is necessary
must be done. I have made my decision. I shall go to the
dragon." He paused. "Bunion will go with me, won't you,
Bunion?" The kobold nodded, grinning ear to ear. The
wizard's hands fluttered. "There, it is settled. I am going.
Bunion is going. And you must come with us, Aber-
nathy." He stopped, hands lowering, tall form stooping
slightly as if from the weight of his sudden frown. "We
must go, you know. After all, what else is there for us to
do?"

He stared questioningly at the scribe. Abernathy stared
back, sharing the look. There was a long silence while
doubt and uncertainty waged a silent war with self-esteem

THE BLACK UNICORN

i?6

in the old friends' eyes. There were shadows of times they
had believed past come back to haunt their present, and
they felt those shadows closing inexorably about. They
could not permit that. Anything was better than waiting
for such suffocating darkness.

The ridgeline was still again,, a dark spine against a sky
of stars and moons that seemed cold and distant. The line
shack and the stock pen were the bones of an aging earth.

"Very well," Abemathy agreed, sighing his most griev-
ous sigh. "We will all be fools together."

No one spoke up to dispute him.

•B

B"

E.

•a

Sunrise found Fillip and Sot present and accounted for as
promised. They were standing a good twenty yards away
when Ben came awake, a pair of motionless, squat shad-
ows in the fading dark, their travel packs strapped to then-
backs, their caps with solitary red feathers set firmly in
place. They appeared bushes at first glance; but after Ben
rose to stretch muscles cramped from the chill and the
hard earth, they came forward a few tentative steps and
gave anxious greetings. They seemed more nervous than
usual and kept peering past him as if they expected an
onslaught of Crag Trolls at any moment.

It took Ben a moment to realize that they were not on
guard against Trolls, but against Edgewood Dirk.

Dirk, for his part, ignored them. He was sitting on the
tree stump washing when Ben thought to look for him,
his silky coat smooth and glistening as if damp from mom-
ing dew. He did not glance up or respond to Ben's good
morning. He went on about the business of cleaning him-
self until he was satisfied that the job was properly com-
pleted, then settled down to the contents of a bowl of
spring water that Ben had provided. Ben hadn't thought
about it before, but Dirk never seemed to eat much. What
he survived on was something of a mystery, but it was a
177

THE BLACK UNICORN

178

mystery that Ben chose to leave unsolved. He had enough
puzzles to deal with without adding another.

They departed shortly after waking, Ben and Dirk lead-
ing—depending on how you defined the word "leading,"
for once again Dirk seemed to know where Ben was going
almost before he did. The gnomes trailed. Fillip and Sot
clearly wanted no part of Edgewood Dirk. They stayed
well back of the cat and watched him the way you would
a snake. Fillip was limping noticeably and Sot appeared
to have burned a good portion of the fur off his wrists and
the backs of his hands. Neither had anything to say about
their injuries, and Ben let them be.

They traveled through the morning at a steady pace,
the sun shining brightly from out of a cloudless sky, the
smell of wild flowers and fruit trees scenting the air. Signs
of the wilt prevailed. They remained small but noticeable,
and Ben thought again of Meeks in his guise, of the de-
mons come back out of Abaddon at his bidding, of the
lessening of magic in the land, and the stealing of its life.
There was a renewed urgency tugging him along, a sense
that time was slipping from him too quickly. He was no
closer than he had ever been to discovering what had been
done to him. He still had no idea why the black unicorn
had come back into Landover or what its importance was
to Meeks. He knew only that there was a tie connecting
all that had happened and he had to unknot it if he were
ever to straighten this mess out.

Thinking of that led him to think once again about Edge-
wood Dirk. It continued to grate on him that the cat chose
to remain such an enigma when he could obviously ex-
plain himself. Ben was reasonably sure by now that Dirk
had not simply stumbled across him that first night in the
lake country, but had deliberately sought him out. He was
also reasonably sure that Dirk was staying with him for
a reason and not simply out of curiosity. But Dirk was
not about to explain himself to Ben until he felt like it;

and given the cat's peculiar nature, that explanation was

Terry Brooks

i79

likely to be offered along about the twelfth of never. Still,
it seemed abhorrent to Ben simply to accept the beast's
presence without making any further effort whatsoever
to leam something of what had brought it to him in the
first place.

As morning lengthened toward noon and the shadow
of the Deep Fell began to grow visible, he decided to take
another crack at the cat. He had been busy during the
trek, mulling over the possibility of a common link be-
tween the various unicorns he had encountered since his
dream. There were, after all, quite a number of them.
There was the black unicorn. There were the sketched
unicorns contained in the missing books of magic—cor-
rection, one of the missing books of magic; the other was
burned-out shell. And there were the fairy unicorns that
had disappeared centuries ago on their journey through
Landover to the mortal worlds. It was the legend of the
fairy unicorns that concerned him just now. He already
believed that there must be a link between the black uni-
corn and the drawings contained in the books of magic.
Otherwise, why had Meeks sent dreams of both? Why did
he want them both so badly? The real question was
whether they also had some connection with the missing
fairy unicorns. He realized that it would be something of
a coincidence if there actually were a connection among
the three, but he was beginning to wonder if it wouldn't
be an even bigger coincidence if there weren't. Magic tied
all three in a single bond, and he would have bet his life
that it was some sort of control over the magic that Meeks
was after.

So. Enough debate. Maybe solving one of the little puz-
zles would aid in solving the big one. And maybe—
just maybe—Edgewood Dirk would be less reticent to
help . . .

"Dirk, you've been a lot of places and seen a lot of
things." He opened the conversation as casually as he
could manage, not giving himself a chance to dwell further

i8o THE BLACK UNICORN

on it. "What do you think about this legend of the missing
fairy unicorns?"

The cat didn't even look at him. "I don't think about
it at all."

"No? Well what if you did think about it? You said you
knew something of the missing, white unicorns when we
first met, didn't you?"

"I did."

"About the unicorns the fairy people sent into the other
worlds? The ones who somehow disappeared?"

"The very same." Dirk sounded bored.

"So what do you think happened to them? How did
they disappear?"

"How?" The cat sniffed. "They were stolen, of
course."

Ben was so astonished at getting a straight answer for
a change that he failed to follow up on it for a moment.
"But. . . stolen by whom?" he managed finally.

"By someone who wanted them, High Lord—who
else? By someone who had the ability and means to cap-
ture them and hold them fast."

"And who would that have been?"

Dirk sounded irritated. "Now who do you think that
would have been?"

Ben hesitated, considering. "A wizard?"

"Not a wizard—wizards^ There were many in those
days, not simply one or two as there are now. They had
their own guild, their own association—loosely formed.
but effective when it chose to be. The magic was stronger
then in Landover, and the wizards hired out to anyone
who needed their skills most and could best afford it. They
were powerful men for a time—until they chose to chal-
lenge the King himself."

"What happened?"

"The King summoned the Paladin, and the Paladin de-
stroyed them. After that, there was only one real wizard
permitted—and he served the King."

Terry Brooks 181

Ben frowned. "But if the unicorns were stolen by the
wizards, what happened to them after the wizards were
. . . disposed of? Why weren't they set free?"

"No one knew where they were."

"But shouldn't someone have looked for them?
Shouldn't they have been found?"

"Yes and yes."

"Then why weren't they?"

Dirk slowed, stopped, and blinked sleepily. "The ques-
tion no one asked then is the one you fail to ask now,
High Lord. Why were the unicorns stolen in the first
place?"

Ben stopped as well, thought momentarily, and
shrugged. "They were beautiful creatures. The wizards
wanted them for themselves, I suppose."

"Yes, yes, yes! Is that the best you can do?"

"Well, uh . . ." He paused again, feeling very much a
fool. "Why can't you just explain it to me, damn it?" he
demanded, exasperated.

Dirk eyed him steadily. "Because I don't choose to,"
he said softly. "Because you have to learn how to see
things clearly again."

Ben stared at him momentarily, glanced back at the
G'home Gnomes who were watching from a safe distance
back, and folded his arms across his chest wearily. He
had no idea what Dirk was talking about, but it didn't do
any good to argue with the cat.

"All right," he said finally. "Let me try again. The
wizards discovered that the fairies were sending unicorns
through Landover into the mortal worlds. They stole the
unicorns for themselves instead. They stole them because
..." He stopped, remembering suddenly the missing
books and the drawings. "They stole the unicorns be-
cause they wanted their magic! That's what the drawings
in that book mean! They have something to do with the
missing unicorns!"

THE BLACK UNICORN

l82

Edgewood Dirk cocked his head. "Do you really think
so, High Lord?"

He was so genuinely curious that Ben was left not
knowing what to think. He had expected the cat to agree
with him, but the cat looked as surprised as he!

"Yes, I really think so," he declared at last, wondering
nevertheless. "I think the missing unicorns and the miss-
ing books are tied together and the black unicorn has
something to do with both."

"That does stand to reason," Dirk agreed.

"But how were the unicorns stolen? And how could
the wizards steal their magic? Weren't the unicorns as
powerful as the wizards?"

"I am told so," Dirk agreed once more.

"Then what happened to them? Where are they
hidden?"

"Perhaps they wear masks."

"Masks?" Ben was confused.

"Like your own. Perhaps they wear masks, and we
cannot see them."

"Like my own?"

"Would you mind not repeating everything I say?"

"But what are you talking about, for Pete's sake?"

Dirk gave him a "Why bother asking me?" look and
sniffed the late morning air as if the answers he sough;

might be found there. The black tail twitched. "I find J
am quite thirsty. High Lord. Would you care to join ms.
for a drink?"

Without waiting for a response, he stood and trotted
off into the trees to one side. Ben stared after him a mo
ment, then followed. They walked a short distance to a
pool fed from a small rapids and bent to drink. Ben drank
rapidly, more thirsty than he had expected. Dirk took hi--
time, dainty to the point of annoyance—lapping gently
pausing frequently, carefully keeping the water from hi1
paws. Ben was conscious of Fillip and Sot in the back-
ground watching, but paid them no mind. His attention

Terry Brooks 183

was given over entirely to the cat and to what Dirk was
going to say next—because he most certainly was going
to say something or Ben was as mistaken as he had ever
been in his life!

Ben was not mistaken. A moment later, Dirk sat back
on his haunches and glanced over. "Look at yourself in
the water, High Lord," he ordered. Ben did and saw a
dilapidated version of himself, but himself nevertheless.
"Now look at yourself out of the water," Dirk continued.
Ben did and saw ragged clothes and cracked boots, dirt
and grime, an unshaved, unkempt, unwashed body. He
could see nothing of his face. "Now look at yourself in
the water again—look closely."

Ben did, and this time he saw the image of himself shim-
mer and change into the image of someone he did not
recognize, a stranger whose clothes were the same ones
he wore.

He looked up sharply. "I don't look like me anymore—
not even to myself!" There was a hint of fear in his voice
that he could not disguise, even though he tried.

"And that, my dear High Lord, is because you are be-
ginning to lose yourself," Edgewood Dirk said softly.
"The mask you wear is becoming you!" The black face
dipped closer. "Find yourself, Ben Holiday, before that
happens. Take off your mask, and perhaps then you can
find a way to unmask the unicorns as well."

Ben looked back hurriedly at the pool of water and to
his relief found his old face back again in the reflection
of the waters. But the definition of his features seemed
weak. It was almost as if he were fading away.

He looked up again for Dirk, but the cat was already
trotting away, scattering the fearful gnomes before him.
"Best hurry, High Lord," he called back. "The Deep Fell
is no place to be looking for oneself after nightfall."

Ben climbed slowly to his feet, not only more confused
than ever but also frightened now as well. "Why do I ask
that damn cat anything?" he muttered in frustration.

184 THE BLACK UNICORN

But he already knew the answer to that question, of
course. He shook his head at matters in general and has-
tened after.

By midaftemoon, they had reached the Deep Fell.

It was unchanged and,unchanging—a dark, impenetra-
ble smudge on an otherwise brightly sunlit expanse of
forestland, hunched down against the earth in the manner
of a creature in hiding, tensed to flee or strike. Shadows
and mist played hide and seek in its sprawling depths,
crawling with slow, irregular movements over trees and
swamp and murk. Nothing else could be seen. What life
forms there were lay in wait, pawns in a hard and vicious
game of survival that rewarded only the quick and the
strong. Sounds were muted and colors shaded gray. Only
death was at home within the Deep Fell, and only death
was immutable. Ben and his companions could sense that
truth. Standing at the hollows rim, they stared downward
into its darkness and thought their separate thoughts.

"Well, we might as well get at it," Ben muttered finally.
He was remembering the last time he had come into the
Deep Fell and the terrifying illusions that Nightshade had
created to keep him out—the illusions of endless swamp,
lizards, and worse. He was thinking of his encounter with
the witch—an encounter that had almost cost him his life.
He was not looking forward to a repeat performance.

"Well," he said again, the word trailing off into silence.

No one was paying any attention to him. Dirk sat next
to him, eyes lidded and sleepy-looking as he basked in a
small patch of sunlight and watched the movement of the
mists in the Deep Fell. Fillip and Sot stood a good dozen
yards left, well away from the cat and the hollows. They
were whispering in small, anxious voices.

He shook his head. "Fillip. Sot."

The G'home Gnomes cringed away, pretending not to
hear him.

Terry Brooks 185

"Get over here!" he snapped irritably, his patience
with gnomes and cats in general exhausted.

The gnomes came sheepishly, tentatively, edging for-
ward with uneasy looks at Dirk, who as usual paid them
no heed. When they were as close as they were going to
get without being dragged, Ben knelt down to face them,
his eyes finding theirs.

"Are you certain that Nightshade is down there?" he
asked quietly.

"Yes, High Lord."

"She is, High Lord."

Ben nodded. "Then I want you to be careful," he told
them quietly. This was no time for impatience or anger,
and he suppressed both. "I want you to be very careful,
all right? I don't want you to do anything that will place
you in any real danger. Just go down there and look
around. I need to know if Willow is there—or even if she's
been there earlier. That's first. Find out any way you
can."

He paused, and the wide brown eyes of the gnomes
shifted uneasily. He waited a moment, captured them
again with his own. "There is a bridle made out of spun
gold," he continued. "Nightshade has it hidden down
there somewhere. I need that bridle. I want you to see if
you can find it. If you can, I want you to steal it."

The brown eyes widened suddenly to the size of sau-
cers. "No, it's all right, don't be afraid," Ben soothed
quickly. "You don't have to steal it if the witch is any-
where about—only if she's not or if you can take it with-
out her knowing. Just do what you can. I'll protect you."

That was probably the worst lie he had told in his entire
life; he didn't really have any way to protect them. But
he had to do something to reassure them or they would
simply bolt at the first opportunity. They might do that
anyway, but he was hoping the majesty of his office would
hold them in thrall just long enough to get this job done.

"High Lord, the witch will hurt us!" Fillip declared.

i86 THE BLACK UNICORN

"Hurt us badly!" Sot agreed.

"No, she won't," Ben insisted. "If you're careful, she
won't even know you're down there. You've been down
there before, haven't you?" Two heads nodded as one.
"She didn't see you then, did she?" Two heads nodded
again. "Then there's no reason she will see you this time
either, is there? Just do as I told you and be careful."

Fillip and Sot looked at each other long and hard. There
was enough doubt in their eyes to float a battleship. Fi-
nally, they looked back again at Ben.

"Just go down once," said Fillip.

"Just once," echoed Sot.

"All right, all right, just once," Ben agreed, casting an
anxious glance at the fading afternoon sun. "But hurry,
will you?"

The gnomes disappeared reluctantly into the hollows
gloom. Ben watched them until they were out of sight,
then sat back to wait.

As he waited, he found himself thinking about Edge-
wood Dirk's repeated references to masks. He wore a
mask. The missing unicorns wore masks. That's what the
cat had said, but what did the cat mean? He propped him-
self up against the base of a tree trunk some dozen yards
from where Dirk basked in the sunlight and tried to reason
it through. It was, after all, about time he reasoned some-
thing through. Lawyers were supposed to be able to do
that; it was indigenous to their profession. King or no in
Landover, he was still a lawyer with a lawyer's habits and
a lawyer's way of thinking. So think, he exhorted himself!
Think!

He thought. Nothing came. Masks were worn by actors
and bandits. You wore them to disguise yourself. You put
them on and then you took them off when you were done
with the disguise. But what did that have to do with him?
Or the unicorns? None of us are trying to disguise our-
selves, he thought. Meeks is trying to disguise me. Who's
trying to disguise the unicorns?

Terry Brooks 187

The wizards who took them, that's who.

The answer came instantly to him. He shifted upright.
The wizards stole the unicorns and then hid them by dis-
guising them. He nodded. It made sense. So how did they
disguise them? With masks? What, turned them into cows
or trees or something? No. He frowned. Start over again.
The wizards took the unicorns—how did they do that—
so they could steal their magic. The wizards wanted the
magic for their own. But what would they do with it? What
use would they find for it? Where was the magic now?

His eyes widened. There were no longer any other true
wizards besides Meeks. The source of his power was in
the missing but now found books of magic, the books that
were supposedly a compilation of the magics acquired
by wizards down through the years—the books with
the drawing of the unicorns! Sure, the unicorns in the
books—or the one book, at least—were drawings of
the missing unicorns!

But why make drawings?

Or are they the unicorns themselves?

"Yes!" he whispered in surprise.

It was so impossible that he hadn't seen it before—but
impossible only in his own world, not in Landover where
magic was the norm! The missing unicorns, the unicorns
no one had seen for centuries, their magic intact, were
trapped in the wizards' books! And the reason that there
was nothing else in the books but the drawings of the
unicorns was that the magic of the books was entirely that
of the unicorns—magic that the wizards had stolen!

And harnessed to their own use?

He didn't know. He started to say something to Dirk,
then checked himself. There was no point in asking the
cat if he was right; the cat would simply find a way to
confuse him all over again. Figure it out for yourself, he
admonished! The unicorns had been transformed by wiz-
ard magic into the drawings in the missing books—that
would explain the disappearance of the unicorns for all

i88 THE BLACK UNICORh

these years, the reason that Meeks had sent the dream of
the books to Questor, and the need Meeks had for the
books. It would even explain Dirk's reference to masks.

Or was he just reaching now?

He paused. There were a few other matters still lacking
explanation, he realized. What about the black unicorn)
Was it simply a white unicorn that had escaped from the
books—the first book, perhaps, the one with the burned-
out core? Why was it black now if it had been white be-
fore? Ash or soot? Ridiculous! Why had it appeared and
then disappeared again at other times over the years if it
were a prisoner in the wizards' books? Why was Meeks
so desperate to get it back now?

His hands twisted in knots. If one unicorn could break
free, why couldn't the rest?

His confusion began to compound. Meeks had hinted
that Ben had done something to wreck his plans, but
hadn't said what. If that was so, it had to have something
to do with the unicorns, black and white. But Ben hadn\
the foggiest idea what that something was.

He sat puzzling matters through without success a»
afternoon stretched toward nightfall and the sun dis-
appeared westward. Shadows lengthened almost imper-
ceptibly across the forest. Slowly, the darkness and miit
of the Deep Fell crept out of their daytime confinement
to link hands with those shadows and close about Ben
and Dirk. The day's warmth faded into evening chill.

Ben ceased his musings and concentrated on the slope
of the hollows. Where were Fillip and Sot? Shouldn't the'
have been back by now? He climbed to his feet anri
stalked to the edge of the pit. There was nothing to be
seen. He walked its rim for several hundred yards in both
directions, through patches of scrub and brush, peering
into the gloom. No luck. A growing uneasiness settled
through him. He hadn't really believed the little gnomes
were in any danger or he wouldn't have sent them down

Terry Brooks 189

alone. Maybe he had been mistaken. Maybe that was the
way he had wanted to see it and not the way it was.

He stalked back to his starting point and stood staring
at the smudge of the Deep Fell helplessly. The dangers
of the hollows had never bothered the gnomes before.
Had something changed that? Damn it, he should have
gone with them!

He glanced over at Dirk. Dirk appeared to be sleeping.

Ben waited some more because he didn't have much
choice. The minutes dragged interminably. It was growing
darker. It was becoming difficult to distinguish things
clearly as the twilight deepened.

Then suddenly there was movement at the hollows rim.
Ben straightened, came forward a step, and stopped. A
mass of brush parted, and Fillip and Sot pushed their way
into view.

"Thank heavens you're all. . ."Ben started and trailed
off.

The G'home Gnomes were rigid with fear. Paralyzed.
Their furry faces were twisted into masks of foreboding,
their eyes bright and fixed. They looked neither right nor
left nor even at Ben. They stared straight ahead and saw
nothing. They stood with their backs to the mass of brush
and held hands in the manner of small children.

Ben rushed forward, frightened now. Something was
dreadfully wrong. "Fillip! Sot!" He knelt down before
them, trying to break whatever spell it was that held them
fast. "Look at me. What happened?"

"7 happened, play-King!" an unpleasantly familiar
voice whispered.

Ben looked up, past the frozen gnomes, at the tall, black
shape that had materialized behind them as if by magic
and found himself face to face with Nightshade.

a" •a

Witcb apd Dra^op,
Dra^op apdWitch

B. .Bi

Ben stared voicelessly into the cold green eyes of the
witch and, if there had been some place to run, he would
have been halfway there already. But there was no run-
ning away from Nightshade. She held him fast simply by
the force of her presence. She was a wall that he could
neither scale nor get around. She was his prison.

Her voice was a whisper. "I never believed it possible
that you would be so foolish as to come back here."

Foolish, indeed, he agreed silently. He forced himself
to reach out to the terrified gnomes and draw them to
him, away from the witch. They fell into him like rag dolls,
shaking with relief, burying their furry faces in his tunic.

"Please help us. High Lord!" was the best Fillip could
manage, his own voice a whisper.

"Yes, please!" echoed Sot.

"It's all right," Ben lied.

Nightshade laughed softly. She was just as Ben re-
membered her—tall and sharp-featured, her skin as pale
and smooth as marble, her hair jet black, save for a single
streak of white down its center, her lean, angular frame
cloaked all in black. She was beautiful in her way, ageless
in appearance, a creature who had somehow come to
terms with her mortality. Yet her face failed to reflect the
190

Terry Brooks

191

emotions that would have made her complete. Her eyes
were depthless and empty. They looked ready to swallow
him.

Well, I asked for this, he thought.

Nightshade's laughter died away then, and there was
the barest hint of uncertainty in her eyes. She came for-
ward a step, peering at him. "What is this?" she asked
softly. "You are not the same ..." She trailed off, con-
fused. "But you must be; the gnomes have named you
High Lord . . . Here, let me see your face in the light."

She reached out. Ben was powerless to resist. Fingers
as cold as icicles fastened on his chin and tilted his head
to the moonlight. She held him there a moment, mutter-
ing. "You are different—yet the same, too. What has
been done to you, play-King? Or is this some new game
you seek to play with me? Are you not Holiday?" Ben
could feel Fillip and Sot shivering against his body, tiny
hands digging into him. "Ah, there is magic at work
here," Nightshade whispered harshly, fingers releasing
his face with a twist. "Whose magic is it? Tell me, now—
quickly!"

Ben fought back an urge to scream, fought to keep his
voice steady. "Meeks. He's come back. He's made him-
self King and changed me into . . . this."

"Meeks?" The green eyes narrowed. "That pathetic
charlatan? How has he found magic enough to accomplish
this?" Her mouth twisted with disdain. "He lacks the
means to tie his own shoes! How could he manage to do
this to you?"

Ben said nothing. He didn't have an answer to give her.

There was a long moment of silence as the witch studied
him. Finally, she said, "Where is the medallion? Let me
see it!"

When he didn't immediately respond, she made a quick
motion with her fingers. Despite his resolve, he found
himself withdrawing the tarnished emblem from his tunic
for her inspection. She stared at it a moment, then stared

THE BLACK UNICORN

again at his face, then slowly smiled the smile of a pred-
ator eyeing dinner.

"So," she whispered.

That was all she said. It was enough. Ben knew in-
stantly that she had figured out what had been done to
him. He knew that she understood the nature of the magic
that had changed him. Her realization of it was infuriating
to him. It was worse than being held like this. He wanted
to scream. He had to know what she had learned, and
there was no way in the world that she was going to tell

him.

"You are pathetic, play-King," she went on, her voice
still soft but insinuating now as well. "You have always
been lucky, but never smart. Your luck has run out. I am
almost tempted to leave you as you are. Almost. But I
cannot forget what you did to me. I want to be the one
to make you suffer for that! Are you surprised to see me
again? I think perhaps you are. You thought me gone for-
ever, I imagine—gone into the world of fairy to perish.
How foolish of you."

She knelt down before him so that her eyes were level
with his. There was such hate that he flinched from it. "I
flew into the mists, play-King—just as you commanded
that I must, just as I was bidden. The lo Dust held me
bound to your command, and I could not refuse. How I
despised you then! But I could do nothing. So I flew into
the mists—but I flew slowly, play-King, slowly! I fought
to break the spell of the lo Dust as I flew; I fought with
all the power that I could summon!"

The smile returned again, slow and hard. "And I did
break the spell finally. I shattered it and turned back
again. Too late, though, play-King, much too late—for I
was already within the fairy mists and there was damage
done to me! I hurt as never before; I was scarred by the
pain of it! I escaped with my life and little else. It took
me months to regain even the smallest part of my magic,
I lay within the swamp, a creature in hiding, as helpless

Terry Brooks 193

as the smallest reptile! I was broken! But I would not give
in to the pain and the fear; I thought only of you. I thought
only of what I would do to you once I had you in my
hands again. And I knew that one day I would find a way
to bring you back to me ..."

She paused. "But I never dreamed it would happen so
soon, my foolish High Lord. What great good fortune! It
was the change that brought you to me, wasn't it? Some-
thing about the change—but what? Tell me, play-King. I
will have it from you anyway."

Ben knew this was so. There was no sense in trying to
keep anything from the witch. He could see in the empty
green eyes what was in store for him. Talking was the
only thing that was keeping him alive, and as long as he
was alive he had a chance. Chances at this point were not
to be tossed aside lightly.

"I came looking for Willow," he answered, pushing
the gnomes behind him now. He wanted them out of the
way—just in case. He had to keep his eyes open for the
right opportunity. The gnomes, however, continued to
cling to him like Velcro.

"The River Master's daughter? The sylph?" Night-
shade's look was questioning. "Why would she come
here?"

"You haven't seen her?" Ben asked, surprised.
Nightshade smiled unpleasantly. "No, play-King. I
have seen no one but you—you and your foolish burrow
people. What would the sylph want with me?"

He hesitated, then took a deep breath. "The golden
bridle."

There, it was out. Better to tell her and see if he could
learn anything than to play it cute. Fencing with Night-
shade was too dangerous.

Nightshade looked genuinely surprised. "The bridle?
But why?"

"Because Meeks wants it. Because he sent Willow a
dream about the bridle and a black unicorn." Quickly he

THE BLACK UNICORN

194

told the witch the story of Willow's dream and of the
sylph's decision to try to learn what she could of the bri-
dle. "She was told that the bridle was here in the Deep
Fell." He paused. "She should have arrived here ahead
of me."

"A pity she didn't," Nightshade replied. "I like her
little better than I like you. Destroying her would have
given me almost as much satisfaction as destroying you."
She paused, thinking. "The black unicorn, is it? Back
again? How interesting. And the bridle can hold it fast,
the dream says? Yes, that could be possible. After all, it
was created by wizard magic. And it was a wizard I stole
it from years back ..."

Nightshade laughed. She studied him, a cunning look
creeping into her eyes. "These pathetic burrow people
who belong to you—were they sent to steal the bridle
from me?"

Fillip and Sot were trying to crawl inside Ben's skin,
but Ben was barely aware of them. He was thinking ot
something else altogether. If Meeks had Once possessed
the bridle, then that meant the wizard probably once used
it—might even have used it to hold captive the black un-
icom. Had the unicorn somehow escaped then? Was the
dream Meeks had sent to Willow designed to regain pos-
session of the bridle so that the unicorn could be recap-
tured? If so, what did the unicorns in the missing books
of magic have to do with . . .

"Do not bother answering, play-King," Nightshade in-
terrupted his thoughts. "The answer is in your eyes.
These foolish rodents crept into the Deep Fell for just thai
reason, didn't they? Crept into my home like the thieves
they are? Crept down on their little cat's paws?"

The mention of cat's paws reminded him suddenly of
Edgewood Dirk. Where was the prism cat? He glanced
around before he could think better of it, but Dirk was
nowhere to be seen.

"Looking for someone?" Nightshade demanded at

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i95

once. Her eyes swept the darkened forest behind Ben like
knives. "I see no one," she muttered after a moment.
"Whoever it is you look for must have abandoned you."

Nevertheless, she took a moment to make certain that
she was right before turning back to him. "Your thieves
are as pathetic as you, play-King," she resumed her at-
tack. "They think themselves invisible, but they remain
unseen only when I do not wish to see them. They were
so obvious in their efforts on this misadventure that I
could not fail to see them. The minute they were mine,
they called for you. 'Great High Lord; mighty High Lord!'
How foolish! They gave you up without my even having
to ask!"

Fillip and Sot were shaking so hard Ben was in danger
of being toppled. He put a hand on each to try to offer
some sort of reassurance. He felt genuinely sorry for the
little fellows. After all, they were in this mess because of
him.

"Since you have me, why not let the gnomes go?" he
asked the witch suddenly. "They're foolish creatures, as
you say. I tricked them into helping me. They really didn't
have a choice. They don't even know why they're here."

"Worse luck for them." Nightshade dismissed the plea
out of hand.' 'No one goes free who stands with you, play-
King." Her face lifted, black hair sweeping back. Her
eyes scanned the darkness once more. "I no longer like
it here. Come."

She rose, a black shadow that gained in size as she
spread her arms. Her robes billowed out like sailcloth.
There was a sudden wind through the trees, cold and
sharp, and mist from the Deep Fell lifted to wrap them
all. Moons and stars vanished into its murk, and there
was a sudden sense of lifting free, of floating. The G'home
Gnomes clutched Ben tighter than ever, and he in turn
held them for lack of something better to hold. There was
a whooshing sound and then silence.

Ben blinked against the cold and the mist, and slowly

THE BLACK UNICORN

ig6

the light returned. Nightshade stood before him, smiling
coldly. The smells of swamp and mist hung thick on the
air. Torchlight revealed a row of stanchions and the bones
of tables and benches scattered across an empty court.

They were somewhere within the Deep Fell, down in
Nightshade's home.

"Do you know what is to happen to-you now, play-
King?" she asked softly.

He had a pretty good idea. His imagination was working
overtime on the possibilities despite his efforts to restrain
it. His chances appeared to have run out. He wondered
fleetingly why it was that Willow hadn't gotten here be-
fore him. Wasn't this where the Earth Mother had told
her to go? If she wasn't here, where was she?

He wondered what had become of Edgewood Dirk.

Nightshade's sudden hiss jarred him free of his
thoughts. "Shall I hang you to dry like apiece of old meat?
Or shall I play games with you awhile first? We must take
our time with this, mustn't we?"

She started to say something more, then paused as a
new thought struck her. "But, no—I have a much better
idea! I have a much grander and more fitting demise in
mind for you!"

She bent into him. "Do you know that I no longer have
the golden bridle, play-King? No? I thought not. It was
stolen from me. It was stolen while I was too weak to
prevent it, still recovering from the hurt that you caused
me! Do you know who has the bridle now? Strabo, play-
King! The dragon has the fairy bridle, the bridle that right-
fully belongs to me. How ironic! You come to the Deep
Fell in search of something that isn't even here! You come
to your doom pointlessly!"

Her face was only inches from his own, skin drawn tight
against the bones, the streak in her black hair a silver
slash. "Ah, but you give me a chance to do something I
could not otherwise do! Strabo dotes on things made of
gold, though he has no use for them except as baubles!

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i97

He has no true appreciation of their worth—especially
the bridle with its magic! He would never give it back to
me, and I cannot take it from him while he keeps it hidden
within the Fire Springs. But he would trade it, play-King.
He most certainly would trade it for something he values
more."

Her smile was ferocious. "And what does he value
more in all the world than a chance to gain his revenge
against you?"

Ben couldn't imagine. Strabo had been a victim of the
lo Dust as well, and he had left Ben with the promise that
one day he would repay him. Ben felt the bottom drop
out of his stomach. This was like being pushed from the
frying pan into the fire. He tried to keep the witch from
seeing what he was feeling and failed.

Nightshade's smile broadened in satisfaction. "Yes,
play-King—I will be most content to leave the means of
your destruction to the dragon!"

She brought her hands up in a sharp swirl of motion,
mists rising as if bidden, chill wind returning in a rush.
"Let us see what fun Strabo will have with you!" she
cried, and her voice was a hiss.

The G'home Gnomes whimpered and fastened once
again on his pant legs. Ben felt himself floating and
watched the hollows begin to disappear . . .

The eastern wastelands lay empty and desolate in the fad-
ing afternoon light as Questor Thews, Abernathy, and
Bunion worked their way steadily ahead through tangled
brush and deadwood, over ridgelines and down ravines,
across brief stretches of desert, and around swamp and
bog. They had walked all day, pushing aside fatigue and
uneasiness in equal measure, determined to reach the
home of the dragon by nightfall.

It was going to be close.

Nothing lived in the wastelands of Landover—nothing
but the dragon. He had adopted the wastelands as his

198 THE BLACK UNICORN

home when driven from the mists of fairy centuries ago.
The wastelands suited the dragon fine. He liked it there.
His disposition found proper solace in the devastation
wrought by nature's whims, and he kept the whole of the
vast expanse his own. Shunned by the other inhabitants
of the valley, he was an entirely solitary being. He was
the only creature in the valley—with the exception of Ben
Holiday—who could cross back and forth between Lan-
dover and the mortal worlds. He could even venture a
short distance into the fairy mists. He was unique—the
last of his kind and quite proud to be so.

He was not particularly fond of company—a fact not
lost on Questor, Abemathy, and Bunion as they hurried
now to reach the beast before it got any darker.

It was dusk nevertheless by the time they finally arrived
at their destination. They climbed to the crest of a ridge-
line that was silhouetted against the coming night by a
brightness that flickered and danced as if alive and found
themselves staring down into the Fire Springs. The
Springs were the dragon's lair. They were settled within
a deep, misshapen ravine, a cluster of craters that burned
steadily with blue and yellow fire amid tangled thickets
and mounds of rock and earth. Fed by a liquid pooled
within the craters, their flames filled the air with smoke,
ash, and the raw stench of burning fuel. A constant haze
hung across the ravine and the hills surrounding, and gey-
sers lifted periodically against the darkness with booming
coughs.

They saw the dragon right off. It slouched down within
the center of the ravine, head resting on a crater's edge,
long tongue licking placidly at a scattering of flames.

Strabo didn't move. He lay sprawled across a mound
of earth, his monstrous body a mass of scales, spikes, and
plates that seemed almost a part of the landscape. When
he breathed, small jets of steam exhaled into the night
His tail was wrapped around a rock formation that rose
behind him, and his wings lay back against his body. His

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i99

claws and teeth were blackened and bent, grown from
leathered skin and gums at odd angles and twists. Dust
and grime covered him like a blanket.

One red eye swiveled in its socket. "What do you
want?" the dragon asked irritably.

It had always amazed Ben Holiday that a dragon could
talk, but Ben was an outlander and didn't understand the
nature of these things. It seemed perfectly normal to
Questor and Bunion that the dragon should talk, and even
more so to Abemathy, being a soft-coated Wheaten Ter-
rier who himself talked.

"We wish to speak with you a moment," Questor ad-
vised. Abemathy managed an affirming nod, but found
himself wondering at the same time why anyone in his
right mind would wish to speak with something as awful
as Strabo.

"I care nothing for what you wish," the dragon said
with a huff of steam from both nostrils. "I care only for
what I wish. Go away."

"This will only take a moment," Questor persisted.

"I don't have a moment. Go away before I eat you."

Questor flushed. "I would remind you to whom you
are speaking! There is some courtesy owed me, given our
long association! Now, please be civil!"

As if to emphasize his demand, he took a meaningful
step forward, a scarecrow figure in tattered sashes that
looked like nothing so much as a bundle of loosely joined
sticks silhouetted against the light. Bunion showed all his
teeth in a frightening grin. Abemathy pushed his glasses
further up on his nose and tried to calculate how quickly
he could reach the safety of the darkened brush at the
base of the ravine behind him.

Strabo blinked and lifted his head from the crater fire.
"Questor Thews, is that you?"

Questor puffed out. "It most certainly is."

Strabo sighed. "How boring. If you were someone of
consequence, you might at least prove a brief source of

200

THE BLACK UNICORN

ai-.;" e.'nent. But you are not worth the effort it would take
m; • :> rise and devour you. Go away."

i','- ?stor stiffened. Ignoring Abernathy's paw on his
s!" '.Jer, he came fonvard another step. "My friends and
I ; : -; journeyed a lo"-^ way to speak with you—and
spc :< »,'ith you we wiUi If you choose to ignore the long
and lonorable associate -1:1 -between wizards and dragons,
that is your loss! But yo'-i do us both a great disservice!"

"You seem rather ill-tempered tonight," the dragon re-
pSi-'ci. His voice reverberated in a long hiss, and the ser-
pen''ne body shifted lazily against the rocks and craters,
tail ^J'ashing liquid firs from a pool. "I might point out
th.'u ••' izards have done nothing for dragons in centuries,
so I see little reason to dwell on any association that might
once have existed. Such nonsense! I might also point out
thai "hile there is no question about my status as a
draa'm, there is certainly some question about yours as
a v.i?a.rd."

"1 will not be drawn into an argument!" Questor
snapped, rather too irritably. "Nor will I depart until you
have heard me out!"

Strabo spit at the sulfurous air. "I ought simply to eat
you, Questor Thews—you and the dog and that other
thing, whatever it is. A kobold, isn't it? I ought to breath
a bit of fire on you, cook you up nicely, and eat you. Bur
I am in a charitable mood tonight. Leave me and I will
forgive your unwelcome intrusion into my home."

"Perhaps we should reconsider ..." Abernathy
began, but Questor shushed him at once.

"Did the dog say something?" the dragon asked softly.

"No—and no one is leaving!" Questor announced,
planting his feet firmly.

Strabo blinked. "No?"

His crusted head swung abruptly about and flame jetted
from his maw. The fire exploded directly beneath Questor
Thews and sent him flying skyward with a yelp. Bunion
and Abernathy sprang aside, scrambling to get clear of

Terry Brooks

201

flying rocks, earth, and bits of flame. Questor came down
again in a tangled heap of robes and sashes, his bones
jarred with the impact.

Strabo chuckled, crooked tongue licking the air. "Very
entertaining, wizard. Very amusing."

Questor climbed to his feet, dusted himself off, spit out
a mouthful of dirt, and faced the dragon once more. "That
was entirely uncalled for!" he declared, struggling to re-
gain his lost dignity. "I can play such games, too!"

His hands clapped sharply, pointed and spread. He
tried to do something with his feet as well, but he lost his
footing on the loose rock, slipped, and sat down with a
grunt. Light exploded above the craters and a shower of
dry leaves tumbled down over Strabo, bursting instantly
into flames from the heat.

The dragon was in stitches. "Am I to be smothered in
leaves?" he roared, shaking with mirth. "Please, wiz-
ard—spare me!"

Questor went rigid, owlish face flushed with anger.

"Maybe we should come back another time," Aber-
nathy ventured in a low growl from his position behind a
protective mound of earth.

But Questor Thews was having none of it. Again, he
brushed himself off and got back to his feet. "Laugh at
me, will you, dragon?" he snapped. "Laugh at a master
practitioner of the magic arts? Very well then—laugh this
off!"

Both hands lifted and wove rapidly through the air.
Strabo was preparing to send forth another jet of flame
when a cloudburst broke immediately overhead and tor-
rents of rain cascaded over him. "Now, stop that!" he
howled, but in seconds he was drenched snout to tail. His
flame fizzled into steam, and he ducked his head into one
of the pools of fire to escape the downpour. When he came
up again for air, Questor made a second gesture and the
rain ceased.

"There, you see?" the wizard said to Abernathy, nod-

202

THE BLACK UNICORN

ding in satisfaction. "He won't be quite so quick to laugh
next time!" Then he turned back once more to the dragon.
"Rather amusing yourself!" he called over.

Strabo flapped his leathered wings, shook himself off.
and glared. "It appears that you will continue to make a
nuisance of yourself, Questor Thews, until I either put an
end to you or listen to whatever it is that you feel com-
pelled to say. I repeat, I am in a charitable mood tonight.
So say what it is you feel you must and be done with it."

"Thank you very much!" Questor replied. "May we
come down?"

The dragon plopped his head back on the edge of the
crater and stretched out again. "Do what you please."

Questor beckoned to his companions. Slowly, they
made their way down the side of the ravine and through
the maze of craters and rocks until they were twenty yards
or so from where the dragon reposed. Strabo ignored
them, eyes lidded, snout inhaling the fumes and fires of
the crater on which he rested.

"You know I hate water, Questor Thews," he
muttered.

"We have come here to learn something about uni-
corns," Questor announced, ignoring him.

Strabo belched. "Read a book."

"As a matter of fact, I did. Several. But they lack the
information about unicorns that you possess. Everyone
knows that unicorns and dragons are the oldest of fairv
creatures and the oldest of enemies. Each of you know"
more of the other than anyone else, fairy or human. I need
to know something of unicorns that no one else would,"

"Whatever for?" Strabo sounded bored again. "Be-
sides, why should I help you? You serve that detestable
human who tricked me into inhaling lo Dust and then
made me pledge never to hunt the valley or its people so
long as he remained King! He is still King, isn't he? Bah!
Of course he is—I would have heard otherwise! Ben Hol-

Terry Brooks 203

iday, Landover's High Lord! I would make a quick meal
of him, if he were ever to set foot in the springs again!"

"Well, it is highly unlikely that he will. Besides, we
are here about unicorns, not about the High Lord." Ques-
tor thought it prudent not to dwell on the subject of Ben
Holiday. Strabo had taken great pleasure in ravaging the
crops and livestock of the valley before the High Lord
had put a stop to it. It was a pleasure the dragon would
dearly love to enjoy again—and well might one day the
way Holiday was behaving lately. But there was no reason
to give the dragon any encouragement.

He cleared his throat officiously. "I assume that you
have heard about the black unicorn?"

The dragon's eyes snapped open and his head lifted.
"The black unicorn? Of course. Is it back again, wizard?''

Questor nodded sagely. "For some time now. I am sur-
prised that you didn't know. There was quite an effort
put forth to capture it."

"Capture it? A unicorn?" Strabo laughed, a series of
rough coughs and hisses. His massive body shook with
mirth. "The humans would capture a unicorn? How pit-
iful! No one captures a unicorn, wizard—even you must
know that! Unicorns are untouchable!"

"Some think not."

The dragon's lip curled. "Some are fools!"

"Then the unicorn is safe? There is nothing that can
ensnare it, nothing that can cause it to be held?"

"Nothing!"

"Not maidens of certain virtue nor silver moonlight
captured in a fairy net?"

"Old wives' tales!"

"Not magic of any sort?"

"Magic? Well ..." Strabo seemed to hesitate.

Questor took a chance. "Not bridles of spun gold?"

The dragon stared at the wizard voicelessly. There was,
Questor Thews realized in surprise, a look of disbelief on
the creature's face.

THE BLACK UNICORM

204

He cleared his throat. "I said, 'Not bridles of spui

gold?'"

And it was at that moment that Nightshade, the stranger
who believed himself Ben Holiday, and two sorry-looking
G'home Gnomes appeared abruptly out of a swirl of mist
not a dozen feet away.

B"

•a

fire apd

SpUT)

E.

.B

There was an endlessly long moment in which everyone
stared at everyone else. It was impossible to tell who was
most surprised. Eyes shifted, fixed, and shifted again. Tall
forms crouched and robes billowed. The dragon's hiss of
warning mingled with that of the witch. Abemathy
growled in spite of himself. Night had closed down upon
the little still life in a black mantle that threatened to engulf
them all. In the silence, there was only the crackle and
spit of the flames as they danced across the cratered pools
of blue liquid.

"You are not welcome here, Nightshade," Strabo
whispered finally, his rough voice a rasp of iron. He rose
up from the edge of the crater on which he had been rest-
ing in a guarded crouch, claws digging into the stone until
it cracked and broke. "You are never welcome."

Nightshade laughed mirthlessly, her pale face streaked
with shadow. "I might be welcome this time, dragon,"
she replied. "I have brought you something."

Questor Thews realized suddenly that the two G'home
Gnomes standing next to the witch and the stranger who
thought himself Ben Holiday were none other than Fillip
and Sot! "Abernathy . . . !" he exclaimed softly, but the
205

THE BLACK UNICORN

2d6

dog was already saying, "I know, wizard! But what are
they doing here?"

Questor had no idea at all. Questor had no idea about
any of what was happening.

Strabo's massive head lifted and the long tongue licked
out. "Why would you bother to bring me anything,

witch?"

Nightshade straightened gracefully, her arms folding in
about her once more. "Ask me first what it is that I
bring," she whispered.

' 'There is nothing you could bring me that I would wish.
There is no point in asking."

"Ah, even if what I bring is that which you most desire
in all the world? Even if it is that dear to you?"

Ben Holiday was frantically trying to decide how he
was going to get out of this mess. There were no friends
to be found in this bunch. Questor, Abemathy, and Bun-
ion believed him an impostor and a fool. Fillip and Sot,
if they still believed anything about him at all, were in-
terested by this time only in escaping with their hides
intact. Nightshade had kept him alive this long strictly for
the purpose of striking a bargain with Strabo, who would
be only too happy to do away with him for her. He cast
about desperately, looking for a way out that apparently
didn't exist.

Strabo's tail thrashed within a pool of fire and sent a
shower of liquid flames skyward against the dark. Ben
flinched. "I tire of games this night," the dragon snapped.
"Get to the point!"

Nightshade's eyes glimmered crimson. "What if I were
to offer you Landover's High Lord, the one they call Hol-
iday? What if I were to offer you that, dragon?"

Strabo's snout curled and the crusted face tightened.
"I would accept that gift gladly!" the dragon hissed.

Ben took a tentative step backward and found he could
not. The G'home Gnomes were still fastened to him like
leg irons. They were shaking and mumbling incoherently

Terry Brooks 207

and preventing him quite effectively from making, any
quick moves. When he tried surreptitiously to pry them
free, they just clung to him all the tighter.

"The High Lord is at Sterling Silver!" Questor Thews
declared suddenly, anger showing in his owlish face.
"You have no power over him there, Nightshade! Be-
sides, he would rid the valley of you in a moment if you
were to show yourself!"

"Really?" Nightshade drew the word out lovingly,
teasingly. Then she came forward a step, one long finger
impaling Questor on its shadow. "When I have finished
my business here, wizard—when your precious High
Lord is no more—then will I deal with you!"

Ben fixed a pleading gaze on his friends. Get out of
here! he tried to tell them.

Nightshade swung back again to Strabo. One clawed
hand fastened on Ben's arm and dragged him forward.
"Here is the one the foolish wizard believes so safe from
me, Strabo! Ben Holiday, High Lord ofLandover! Look
closely now! Magic has been used! Look beneath the ex-
terior of what you first see!"

Strabo snorted derisively, belched a quick burst of
flame, and laughed. "This one? This is Holiday? Night-
shade, you are mad!" He leaned closer, the ooze dripping
from his snout. "This one doesn't even begin to look like
. . . No, wait—you are right, there is magic at work here.
What has been done ..." The massive head dipped and
raised, and the eyes blinked. "Can this be so?"

"Look closely!" Nightshade repeated once again,
thrusting Ben before her so hard his head snapped back.

Everyone was looking at Ben now, but only Strabo saw
the truth. "Yes!" he hissed, and the massive tail thrashed
once more in satisfaction. "Yes, it is Holiday!" The jaws
parted and the blackened teeth snapped. "But why is it
that only you and I . . . ?"

"Because only we are older than the magic that does
this!" Nightshade anticipated and answered the question

THE BLACK UNICORN

208

before the dragon could complete it. "Do you understand
how it has been done?"

Ben, prize exhibit that he was, wanted nothing more
than to hear the answer to that question. He had accepted
the fact that he was not going to get out of this in one
piece, but he hated to think he was going to die without
ever knowing how he had been undone.

"But ... but that's not the High Lord!" Questor
Thews declared angrily, sounding suddenly as if he were
trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. "That
cannot be the High Lord! If this is ... is ... then, the
High Lord is ..."

He trailed off, a strange look of understanding crossing
his face, a look of disbelief shredded by horror, a look
that screamed soundlessly a single name—Meeks! Bun-
ion was hissing and pulling at his arm, and Abemathy was
muttering frantically about how all this could explain
someone-or-other's odd behavior.

All three were pointedly ignored by the dragon and the

witch.

"Why would you give him to me?" Strabo was de-
manding of Nightshade, wary now of what was being

offered.

"I said nothing of 'giving' you anything, dragon,"
Nightshade replied softly. "I wish to trade him."

"Trade him, witch? You hate him more than I! He sent
you into the fairy world and almost destroyed you. He
marked you with the magic! Why would you trade him?
What could I possess that you would want more than
Holiday?"

Nightshade smiled coldly. "Oh, yes, I hate him. And
I wish him destroyed. But the pleasure shall be yours,
Strabo. You need only give me one thing. Give me back
the bridle of spun gold."

"The bridle?" Strabo's response came with a hiss of
disbelief. He coughed. "What bridle?"

"The bridle!" Nightshade snapped. "The bridle that

Terry Brooks 209

you stole from me while I was helpless to prevent it. The
bridle that is rightfully mine!"

"Bah! Nothing you possess is rightfully yours—least
of all the bridle! You yourself stole it from that old
wizard!"

"Be that as it may, dragon, the bridle is what I wish!"

"Ah, well, of course, if that is what you wish ..." The
dragon seemed to be hedging. "But surely, Nightshade,
there are other treasures that I possess that would serve
you better than such a simple toy! Suggest something else,
something of greater worth!"

The witch's eyes narrowed. "Now who is it that plays
games? I have decided on the bridle and it is the bridle
that I shall have!"

Ben had been momentarily forgotten. Nightshade had
released him and he had slipped back behind her again,
the gnomes still clinging to his legs. As he listened to the
bartering, he caught Questor Thews studying him with
renewed interest. Abemathy peered over the magician's
shoulder through smoke-streaked glasses, and Bunion
peered from behind a fold of robe. All were clearly trying
to decide how he could be someone other than what he
appeared. Ben gritted his teeth and motioned them fran-
tically away with a shake of his head. For crying out loud,
they were all going to end up fried!

"It is simply that I fail to see why the bridle is of such
interest to you," Strabo was saying, neck curving upward
into the dark so that he loomed over the witch.

"And I fail to see what difference it makes!" Night-
shade snapped, straightening up a bit further herself. Fire-
light danced across her marble face. "I fail to see why
you make such an issue of returning what is nrine to begin
with!"

Strabo sniffed. "I need explain nothing to you!"
"Indeed, you need not! Just give me the bridle!"
"I think not. You wish it too badly."
"And you wish Holiday not enough!"

210

THE BLACK UNICORN

"Oh, but I do! Why not accept a chest of gold or a fairy
scepter that changes moonbeams into silver coins? Why
not take a gemstone marked with runes that belonged to
the Trolls when the power of magic was theirs as well—
a gemstone that can give truth to the holder?"

"I don't want truth! I don't want gold or scepters or
anything else you hold, you fat-lizard!" Nightshade was
genuinely mad now, her voice rising to a near scream. "I
want the bridle! Give it to me or Holiday will never be

yours!"

She edged forward threateningly, leaving Holiday and
the G'home Gnomes half-a-dozen paces behind her. It
was the closest to freedom that Ben had been since his
capture at the Deep Fell. As the voices of the witch and
dragon grew more strident, he began to think that
maybe—just maybe—there might be a way out of this

yet.

He pried Fillip forcibly from his right leg, held him dan-
gling from the crook of his arm, and began to work Sot
free from his left.

"One last time, dragon," Nightshade was saying. "Will
you trade me the bridle for Holiday or not?"

Strabo gave a long sigh of disappointment. "I am afraid,
dear witch, that I cannot."

Nightshade stared at him wordlessly for a moment,
then her Ups peeled back from her teeth in a snarl. "You
don't have the bridle anymore, do you? That is why you
won't trade it to me! You don't have it!"

Strabo sniffed. "Alas, quite true."

"You bloated mass of scales!" The witch was shaking
with fury. "What have you done with it?"

"What I have done with it is my concern!" Strabo
snapped in reply, looking more than a bit put upon. He
sighed again. "Well, if you must know, I gave it away."

"You gave it away?" The witch was aghast.

Strabo breathed a long, delicate stream of fire into the
night air and followed it with a trail of ashy vapor. The

Terry Brooks

211

lidded eyes blinked and seemed momentarily distant. "I
gave it to a fairy girl who sang to me of beauty and light
and things a dragon longs to hear. No maiden has sung
to me in many centuries, you know, and I would have
given much more than the bridle for a chance to become
lost again in such sweet music."

"You gave the bridle away for a song?" Nightshade
spoke the words as if trying to convince herself that they
had meaning.

"A memory means more than any tangible treasure."
The dragon sighed once more. "Dragons have always had
a weakness for beautiful women, maidens of certain vir-
tue, girls of grace and sweet smiles. There is a bond that
joins us. A bond stronger than that of dragons and wiz-
ards, I might add," he addressed Questor Thews in a
quick aside. "She sang to me, this girl, and asked me in
return for the bridle of spun gold. I gave it to her gladly."
He actually seemed to smile. "She was quite beautiful,
this sylph."

Ben started. A sylph? Willow!

The dragon's head dipped solemnly toward Ben. "I
helped give her back her life once," he intoned. "Re-
member? You commanded it. Holiday. I flew her out of
Abaddon to her home in the lake country where she could
be healed. I didn't mind that so much—the saving of her
life. I hated you, of course—you forced me to submit to
you. But I rather enjoyed saving the sylph. It reminded
me of the old days when saving maidens was routine work
for a dragon."

He paused. "Or was it devouring them? I can never
remember which."

"You are a fool!" Nightshade spat.

Strabo cocked his head as if thinking it over. Then his
snout split wide to reveal all of his considerable teeth.
"Do you really think so? A fool? Me? A bigger fool than
you, witch? So big a fool as to venture unprotected into
the lair of my worst enemy?"

212

THE BLACK UNICORN

The silence was palpable. Nightshade was a statue. "I
am never unprotected, dragon. Beware."

"Beware? How quaint." Strabo suddenly coiled like a
spring. "I have endured patiently your venomous assault
on my character; I have allowed you to speak what you
wished. Now it is my turn. You are a skinny, pathetic
excuse for witchhood who'believes herself far more pow-
erful than she is. You come into my home as if you belong
here, order me about, call me names, demand things you
have no right to demand, and think you can go right ov^
again. You mistake yourself, Nightshade. I might, had I
the chance to do it over again, keep the bridle of spur.
gold so that I could trade it to you for Holiday. I might
But I regret nothing that I have ever done, and this least
of all. The bridle is gone, and I do not wish it back again."

He bent forward slowly. The rough voice changed to
a slow hiss. "But look—Holiday is still here, witch! And
since you brought him expressly for me, I rather think 1
ought to keep him! Don't you?"

Nightshade's fingers were like claws as they lifted be
fore her lean face. "You will take nothing more from me,
dragon—not now, not ever!"

"Ah, but you have only yourself to blame. You have
made the prospect of destroying Holiday so tempting tha'
I cannot resist your lure! I must have him! He is mine to
destroy, bridle or no! I think you had best give him to
me—now!"

Flames burst from the maw of the dragon and engulfed
Nightshade. At the same moment, Ben ripped Sot free at
last of his left leg and flung himself sideways to escape
the backlash of heat and fire. Questor Thews was moving
as well, all arms and legs as he galloped toward Ben. Bun-
ion sprinted past him, ears flattened back. Abemath\,
went down on all fours and scurried for the safety of the
bushes.

Ben surged back to his feet, still carrying the wailing
gnomes. Strabo's fire exploded skyward into the black,

Terry Brooks 213

filling the air with a shower of sparks and rock. Night-
shade stood unharmed in their center, black robes flying
like drying bedclothes caught in the wind, pale face lifted,
arms gesturing. Fire burst from her fingers and hammered
into a surprised Strabo. The dragon flew backward, tum-
bling into a cratered pool.

"High Lord!" Questor Thews cried out in warning.

Nightshade whirled just in time to be caught by the full
force of a magical gesture from the magician that swept
the witch up in a blinding flurry of snowflakes. Nightshade
swatted at them angrily, screamed, and threw fire back
at him. Shards of flame hissed past Ben as he flung himself
down again, smothering the gnomes. The fur on Aber-
nathy's hind end caught fire, and the scribe disappeared
up the slope of the Fire Springs with a yelp.

Then Strabo surfaced once more from the crater into
which he had fallen, roaring in fury. Uncoiling his ser-
pentine body with a lunge, he sprayed the whole of the
Springs with fire. Nightshade swung back on him, shriek-
ing with equal fury, spraying fire of her own. Ben was on
his feet and running for his life. The fire swept over him,
a wall of heat and red pain. But Questor was there now,
hands gesturing desperately, and a shield of some impen-
etrable plastic substance appeared out of nowhere to slow
the fire down. Ben kept his arms locked about the strug-
gling, whimpering G'home Gnomes and scrambled des-
perately to escape the pursuing flames. Bunion's tough
arms closed about his waist and helped haul all three to-
ward the lip of the cratered valley. Questor followed, call-
ing out in encouragement.

Moments later, they reached the rim of the Fire Springs
and stumbled from the heat and smoke into the cooling
scrub. Coughing and gasping, they collapsed in a tangled
knot. Abemathy joined them from out of the dark.

Behind them, the witch and the dragon continued their
private battle uninterrupted, their shrieks and roars filling

THE BLACK UNICORN

214

the night. They hadn't even realized yet that the object
of their struggle had escaped.

Ben glanced hurriedly at his companions. White eyes
blinked back at him through the dark. No sense in resting
now, they all seemed to agree. It wouldn't take long for
the witch and the dragon to realize what had happened.

Stumbling to their feet once again, they disappeared
swiftly into the night.

•a

B-

Search

B.

•B

It was sometime after midnight when Ben and his com-
panions finally broke off their flight. The skies had gone
black with thunderheads that rolled eastward out of the
grasslands. Moons and stars disappeared as if blown from
the heavens by the sudden winds, thunder rumbled in long
booming peals, and lightning laced the skies. The rains
came swiftly, hard and chill, sweeping broomlike across
the wastelands. There was barely time to find shelter in
a thick copse of fir before the whole of the land surround-
ing had turned invisible in a wash of impenetrable mist
and damp.

The company sat beneath the massive boughs of the
centermost fir and peered out through the curtain of
needles at the downpour. Wind rushed in stinging swipes
through the trees and scrub, and water cascaded down.
Everything faded away amid the steady sounds, and the
stand of trees became an island in the gloom.

Ben sat back against the fir's massive trunk after a while
and stared at the others, eyes shifting from one face to
the next. "I am Ben Holiday, you know," he said finally.
"I really am."

They looked questioningly at one another and back
again at him.

215

216                THE BLACK UNICOIW

"Save us, mighty High Lord," said Fillip after a mo-
ment, the words a toneless whimper.

"Yes, save us," begged Sot.

They looked like drowned rats, fur grimy and matted
down by the rain, clothing ragged and torn. Their fingers
reached tentatively for his legs.

"Stop that," he admonished w'earily. "There is nothing
to save you from. You're all right now."

"The dragon . . ." began Fillip.

"The witch ..." began Sot.

"Far back and not about to go hunting for us in this.
By the time they finish trying to set fire to each other and
think to wonder what happened to us, the rain will have
washed away any trace of where we went." He tried to
sound more confident than he felt. "Don't worry. We'ii
be fine."

Bunion showed all his teeth and hissed. He looked at
Ben as he might an errant bog wump. Abernathy didn't
seem to want to look at Ben at all.

Questor Thews cleared his throat. Ben glanced ex-
pectantly at him, and the wizard seemed suddenly un
certain of what to say. "This is rather difficult," he said
finally. He squinted at Ben. "You say you are indeed the
High Lord? The witch and the dragon were correct in
believing you so?"

Ben nodded slowly.

"And the story you told us at Sterling Silver—that was
all true? You were changed somehow by magic? You have
lost the protection of the medallion?"

Ben nodded a second time.

"And Meeks has returned and taken your place—and
made himself appear as you?"

Ben nodded a third time.

Questor's lean features squinched down so hard against
each other he appeared to be in danger of causing per
manentdamage, "But how?" he demanded finally. "How
did all this happen?"

Terry Brooks 217

Ben sighed. "That is the sixty-four thousand dollar
question, I'm afraid."

Briefly he recounted again his confrontation with
Meeks in his bedchamber and his transformation into the
stranger he appeared to them to be. He took them to the
moment of his decision to travel south in search of Wil-
low. "I've been hunting for her ever since," he
concluded.

"See—I told you!" Abernathy snapped.

Questor stiffened and he peered down his long nose at
the scribe. "Told me what7" he demanded, owlish face
tightening even further.

"That the High Lord wasn't acting like the High Lord!"
Abernathy fairly barked. "That something was definitely
wrong! That nothing was what it should be! In fact, wiz-
ard, I told you a good deal more than that, if you would
bother taking time enough to remember any of it!" He
shoved his rain-streaked glasses back on his nose. "I told
you that these dreams would bring nothing but trouble. I
told you to forget about chasing after them!" He wheeled
suddenly on Ben, a prophet whose visions had come to
pass. "I warned you as well, didn't I? I told you to stay
in Landover where you belonged! I told you Meeks was
too dangerous! But you wouldn't listen, would you? Nei-
ther of you would listen! Now look where we are!"

He sneezed, shook himself furiously, and showered
everyone with water. "Sorry," he muttered, sounding not
the least so.

Questor sniffed. "I trust you feel better now?"

Ben decided to head off any further squabbling. "Ab-
ernathy is right. We should have listened to him. But we
didn't, and what's done is done. We have to put all that
behind us. At least we're back together again."

"A lot of good that's going to do us!" Abernathy
snapped, still miffed.

"Well, it might do us some good." Ben tried his best

THE BLACK UNICORN

2l8

to sound positive. "The six of us together might be able
to accomplish something more than I could alone."

"The six of us?" Abernathy eyed the G'home Gnomes
with disdain. "You count two more than I, High Lord.
In any case, I am still not convinced that you really are
the High Lord. Questor Thews is much too quick to be-
lieve. We have already been fooled once; it is possible
that we are being fooled again. How do we know that this
isn't just another charade? How do we know that this isn't
another of Meeks' tricks?"

Ben thought about it a moment. "You don't, I guess.
You have to take my word for it. You have to trust me—
and trust your instincts." He sighed. "Do you think
Meeks could fool both Strabo and Nightshade that badly?
Do you think I would be hanging about claiming to be
High Lord if I really weren't?" He paused. "Do you think
I would still be wearing this?"

He reached down inside his tunic front and produced
the tarnished medallion. The image of Meeks gleamed
wetly, caught in a flash of distant lightning.

"Why are you still wearing it?" Questor asked quietly.

Ben shook his head.' 'I'm afraid to get rid of it. If Meeks
is right and throwing off the medallion will finish me, then
who would be left to warn Willow? She doesn't know any
of what's happened. She doesn't know that the dreams
were sent by Meeks or the danger she's in. I care too
much for her, Questor. I can't abandon her. I can't take
the chance that she'll fall into the same trap I did and have
no one to help her out."

They were all silent for a moment, studying him.

"No, High Lord—you can't," Questor agreed finally.
The wizard looked over at Abernathy. "The real Ben Hol-
iday wouldn't even think of such a thing, would he?" he
asked pointedly. "Not the real Ben Holiday."

Abernathy considered the possibility silently for a mo-
ment, then sighed. "No, I suppose he wouldn't." He
glanced at Bunion, who nodded his monkey face approv-

Terry Brooks 219

ingly. "Very well. The others accept you as High Lord;

I shall do so as well."

"I appreciate that," Ben assured his scribe.

"But I still think that you are no better off with four
of us. . ."He glanced once more at the G'home Gnomes.
" . . .or six of us—or however many of us can be counted
on—than you were by yourself! What is it that six of us
are supposed to do that you could not do alone?"

The others looked at him expectantly. He stared past
them into the haze of rain and darkness, drew his legs up
to his chest to ward off the growing chill, and tried to
come up with something. "Find Willow," he said finally.
"Protect her."

They stared at him voicelessly.

"Look. The third dream is the key to everything that's
happened, and the bridle is the key to the dream. Willow
has the bridle now—we know that. Strabo gave it to her.
She has it, but what will she do with it?"

"What, Mighty High Lord?" asked Fillip eagerly.

"Yes, what?" echoed Sot.

"She will take it to you, High Lord," Questor answered
quickly. Then he paused. "Or at least to the one she be-
lieves to be you."

"That's right, Questor," Ben whispered. "That's what
the dream told her she must do and that's what she'll do.
She'll take the bridle to me. But I won't be me. I'll be
Meeks. Or he'll be Meeks—the one she'll run to. And
then what happens to her?"

"We have to reach her first," Questor insisted quietly.

"As soon as it stops raining," Abernathy added.

Ben nodded. "Six of us will have a better chance than
one."

"Bunion will have a better chance than ten times six,"
Abernathy interjected, sneezing again. "I think I am
catching cold," he muttered.

"For once, Abernathy is right!" Questor exclaimed,
ignoring the reproving look the dog gave him. "A kobold

220

THE BLACK UNICORN

can track faster and farther than any human. If there is
any sign of the girl. Bunion will find it." He looked over
at the kobold, who showed all of his teeth in response,
"Indeed, Bunion will find her for us—you may depend
upon it." He shrugged. "As soon as it stops raining, of
course".

Ben shook his head. "We can'twait that long. We don't
have . . ."

"But we have to," the wizard interrupted gently.

"But we can't. . ."

"We must." Questor took his arm and held it. "There
can be no tracking done in a storm such as this one, High
Lord. There would be no signs to follow." His owlish
face bent close and there was sudden warmth in his eyes.
"High Lord, you have come a long way since Sterling
Silver. You have clearly suffered much. Your physical
appearance, however distorted it might be, does not he.
Look at yourself. You are worn to the bone. You are
exhausted. I have seen beggars who looked healthier than
you. Abemathy?"

"You look a wreck," the dog agreed.

"Well, bad enough, at any rate." The wizard tempered
the other's assessment with a smile. "You need to rest.
Sleep now. There will be time enough later to begin the
hunt."

Ben shook his head vigorously. "Questor, I'm not
tired. I can't. . ."

"I think you must," the wizard said softly. A boney
hand passed briefly before Ben's face, and his eyes grev
suddenly heavy. He could barely keep them open. He felt
a pervasive weariness slip within his body and weigh him
down. "Rest, High Lord," Questor whispered.

Ben fought the command, struggled to rise, and found
he could not. For once, the wizard's magic was working
right on the first try. Ben was slipping back against the
rough trunk of the fir, downward into a bed of needles
His companions drew close. Abemathy's furry, bespec-

Terry Brooks 221

kled face peered at him through a gathering of shadows.
Bunion's teeth gleamed like daggers. Fillip and Sot were
vague images that wavered and voices that murmured and
seemed to draw steadily farther away. He found comfort
in their presence, strength, and reassurance—his friends,
all there with him except Parsnip—and Willow!

"Willow," he whispered.

He spoke her name once and was asleep.

He dreamed of Willow while he slept, and the dream was
a revelation that shocked him, even in his slumber. He
searched for the sylph through the forests, hills, and plains
ofLandover, a solitary quest that drew him on as a magnet
would iron. The country through which he traveled was
familiar and yet foreign, too, a mix of sunshine and shad-
ows that shimmered with the inconsistency of an image
reflected on water. There were things that moved all about
him, but they lacked face and form. He hunted alone, his
search a seemingly endless one that took him from one
end of the valley and back again, swift and certain in its
pace but fruitless nevertheless.

He was driven by an urgency that surprised him. There
was a need to find the sylph that defied explanation. He
was frightened for her without understanding the reason
for his fear. He was desperate to be with her, yet his
desperation lacked cause. It was as if he were captive to
his emotions and they determined his course where reason
could not. He could sense Willow's presence as he
searched, a closeness that teased him. It was as if she
waited behind each tree and beyond each hill, and he need
only journey a bit further to find her. Weariness did not
slow him as he traveled; strength of purpose carried him
on.

After a time, he began to hear voices. They whispered
to him from all about, some in warning, some in admon-
ishment. He heard the River Master, distrustful yet of
who Ben was, strangely anxious that the daughter he

222

THE BLACK UNICORN

could not quite love and who could not quite love him be
found. He heard the Earth Mother, asking him to repeat
again the promise he had made to her to find and protect
Willow, insistent that he honor it. He heard that solitary,
defeated hunter speak once more in hollow tones of the
black unicorn, of the touch that had stolen away his soul.
He heard Meeks, his voice a dark and vengeful hiss that
promised ruin if the girl and the golden bridle should es-
cape him.

Still he went on.

And then he heard Edgewood Dirk.

It was the voice of the prism cat that slowed him, aware
suddenly of how frantic his search for Willow had be
come. He stopped, his breath ragged in his ears, his ches^
pounding. He stood within a forest glade that was cool
and solitary, a mix of shadows and light, of boughs can-
opied overhead and moss grown thick underfoot. Dirk sat
upon a knoll within that glade, prim and sleek and
inscrutable.

"Why do you run so, High Lord Ben Holiday?" Dirk
asked quietly.

"I must find Willow," he replied.

"Why must you find her?" Dirk pressed.

"Because danger threatens her," he answered.

"And is that all?"

He paused. "Because she needs me."

"And is that all?"

"Because there is no one else."

"And is that all?"

"Because . . ."

But the words he searched for would not come, as elu-
sive as the sylph herself. There were words to be spoke"
he sensed. What were those words?

"You work so hard to orchestrate your life," Dirk dc
dared almost sadly. "You work so hard to fit all the
pieces together, a vast puzzle you must master. But you

Terry Brooks 223

fail to understand the reason for your need to do so. Life
is not simply form, High Lord; life is feeling, too."

"I feel," he said.

"You govern," Dirk corrected. "You govern your
kingdom, your subjects, your work, and your life. You
organize—here as you once organized there. You com-
mand. You command as King as you commanded as law-
yer. Court-of-law stagecraft or royal-court politics—you
are no different now than you were then. You act and you
react with quickness and skill. But you do not feel."

"I try."

"The heart of the magic lies in feeling, High Lord. Life
is bom of feeling, and the magic is born of life. How can
you understand either life or magic if you do not feel?
You search for Willow, but how can you recognize her
when you fail to understand what she is? You search with
your eyes for something they cannot see. You search with
your senses and your body for what they cannot find. You
must search instead with your heart. Try now. Try, and
tell me what you see."

He did, but there was a darkness all about him that
would not let him see. He drew deep inside himself and
found passages through which he could not travel. Ob-
structions blocked his way, shapeless things that lacked
clear definition. He tried furiously to push past them,
groping, reaching . . .

Then Willow was before him, a misty vision suddenly
remembered. She was lithe and quicksilver as she passed,
her face stunning in its beauty, her body a whisper of his
need. Forest green hair tumbled down about her slender
shoulders and fell to her waist. White silk draped and
clung like a second skin. Her eyes met his, and he found
his breath drawn from him with a sharpness that hurt. She
smiled, warm and tender, and her whisper was soundless
in his mind. There was no danger that threatened her, no
sense of urgency about her. She was at peace with herself.
She was at rest.

THE BLACK UNICORN

224

"Why do you run so, High Lord Ben Holiday?" Dirk
repeated from somewhere within the shadows.

"I must find Willow," he answered again.

"Why must you find her?"

"Because . . ."

Again, he could not find the words. The shadows began
to tighten. Willow began to fade back into them.

"Because ..."

She faded further, a memory disappearing. He strug-
gled frantically to find the words he needed to say, but
they eluded him still. The sense of urgency returned,
quick and hard. The danger to the sylph became real once
more, as if somehow resurrected by his indecision. He
tried to reach out to her with his hands, but she was too
far away, and he was too rooted in place.

"Because . . ."

The shadows were all about, cloaking him now in their
blackness, smothering him in their endless dark. He was
drawing back out of himself. Dirk was gone. Willow was
little more than a patch of light and color against the black,
fading, fading . . .

"Because . . ."

Willow!

He came awake with a start, jerking upright from his
place of rest, his underarms and back damp with sweat.
Night shrouded the eastern wastelands in silence. Clouds
masked the skies, though the rain had ceased to fall. Ben's
companions slept undisturbed all about him—all except
Bunion. Bunion was already gone, his search for Willow
begun.

Ben took a deep breath to steady himself. His dream
of Willow was still sharp and certain in his mind. He
exhaled.

"Because ... I love her," he finished.

Those were the words he had searched for. And he.
knew with frightening certainty that the words were true.

He was awake for a time after that, alone with his thoughts

Terry Brooks 225

in the dark silence of the night. After a while, though, he
tired and dropped back off to sleep. When he awoke again,
it was nearing dawn, the eastern sky behind the valley
rim brightening with faint streaks of gray and gold. Bunion
had not returned. The others still slept.

He rolled over on his back, glanced about the storm-
dampened campsite, and then blinked in surprise. Edge-
wood Dirk rested comfortably on a thick bough of the fir
just a few feet above his head, paws tucked under his sleek
body, eyes squinched closed against the light.

The eyes slipped open as Ben stared. "Good morning,
High Lord," the cat offered.

Ben pushed himself up on his elbows. "Good morning,
nothing. Where have you been?"

"Oh, here and there."

"More there than here, it seems!" Ben snapped, a great
deal of pent-up anger coming quickly to the fore. "I could
have used a little help back there in the Deep Fell when
you so conveniently disappeared! I was lucky the witch
didn't do away with me on the spot! And then I was
dragged off to Strabo's den and offered to him as a snack!
But all that made precious little difference to you, did it?
Thanks for nothing!"

"You are quite welcome," Dirk replied calmly. "I
would remind you once again, however, that I signed on
as a companion, not as a protector. Besides, it appears
you have suffered no harm in my absence."

"But I might have, damn it!" Ben couldn't help him-
self. He was sick of the eat appearing and disappearing
like some wraith. "I might have been fried in dragon oil
for all the good you'd have done me!"

"Might have, could have, may have, should have—the
haves and the have nots reduced to pointless possibili-
ties." Dirk yawned. "You would do better to forget flog-
ging dead horses and try rounding up a few live ones."

Ben glared. "Meaning?"

THE BLACK UNICORN

226

"Meaning you have something more important on your
mind than chastising me for imagined wrongs."

Ben paused, remembering suddenly his dream, the
search he had undertaken, the golden bridle, the black
unicorn, Meeks, and all the rest of the puzzle he still didn't
understand. Ah, and Willow! Thoughts of the sylph
pushed all others aside. I loye her, he told himself, trying
the words on for size. He found them unexpectedly

comfortable.

"There are those who theorize that our dreams are sim-
ply manifestations of our subconscious thoughts and
desires," Dirk mused, as if delivering an offhand dis-
sertation. "Dreams do not often portray accurately the
events upon which those thoughts and desires are formed,
but they do demonstrate quite vividly the emotions behind
them. We find ourselves involved in bizarre situations and
disjointed events, and our tendency is often to dismiss the
dream out-of-hand—a self-conscious response. But hid-
den within the thrashings of our subconscious is a kernel
of truth about ourselves that needs to be understood—
truth that sometimes we have refused to recognize while
awake and now demands recognition while we sleep."

He paused for dramatic effect. "Love is sometimes
such a truth."

Ben pushed himself upright, stared at this cat turned
philosopher a moment, and then shook his head. "Is all
this in reference to Willow?" he asked.

Dirk blinked. "Of course, sometimes dreams lie and
the truth can be found only in waking."

"Like with my dream of Miles?" Ben found the cat's
conversation needlessly convoluted. "Why don't you just
say what you mean for once?"

Dirk blinked again. "Because I am a cat."

"Oh. Sure." The standard answer again.

"Because some things you simply have to figure out
for yourself."

"Right."

Terry Brooks 227

"Something you have not proven very adept at doing,
I'm afraid."

"Certainly not."

"Despite my continuing efforts."

"Hmmmmm." Ben experienced an almost uncontrol-
lable urge to throttle the beast. To suppress the feeling,
he glanced about instead at his still sleeping companions.
"Why isn't anyone but me awake yet?" he demanded.

Dirk glanced about with him. "Perhaps they are simply
very tired," the cat suggested amiably.

Ben gave him a hard look. "What did you do—employ
a bit of magic? Fairy magic? As Questor did with me?
You did, didn't you?"

"A bit."

"But why? I mean, why bother?"

Dirk rose, stretched, and jumped down next to Ben,
pointedly ignoring him. He began to wash himself and
continued to do so until he had cleaned himself thor-
oughly, fur carefully ruffled and smoothed back in place
again.

Then he faced Ben, emerald eyes gleaming in the faint
dawn light. "The problem is, you do not listen. I tell you
everything you need to know, but you do not seem to
hear any of it. It really is distressing." He sighed deeply.
"I let your companions sleep to demonstrate to you one
final lesson about dreams. So much of your understanding
of what has happened depends on your understanding of
how dreams work. Watch, now, what occurs when your
friends awake. And try to pay attention this time, will
you? My patience wears exceedingly thin."

Ben grimaced. Edgewood Dirk settled back on his
haunches. Together they waited for something to happen.
After a moment, Questor Thews stirred, then Abemathy,
and finally the gnomes. One by one, they blinked the sleep
from their eyes and sat up.

Then they saw Ben, and more especially. Dirk.

"Ah, good morning. High Lord. Good morning. Dirk,"

THE BLACK UNICORN

228

Questor greeted brightly. "Slept well the both of you, I
hope?"

Abernathy muttered something about all cats being
night creatures and not needing sleep anyway, even prism
cats, and how it was a waste of time to worry about any
of them.

Fillip and Sot eyed Dirk as they would a long-awaited
dinner and showed not the slightest trace of fear.

Ben stared in bewilderment, the conversation contin-
uing on about him as if the cat's presence were perfectly
normal. No one seemed surprised that the cat was there.
Questor and Abernathy were behaving as if his appear-
ance was entirely expected. The gnomes were behaving
the way they had at their first encounter with Dirk; neither
seemed to remember what their eagerness to make Dirk
a meal had cost them.

Ben listened a moment as the others talked and
bustled about, then glanced in confusion at the cat.
"What. . . ?"

"Their dreams, High Lord," Dirk whispered, inter-
rupting. "I let them discover me in their dreams. I was
real to them there, so I am real to them here. Don't you
see? Truth is sometimes simply what we perceive it to
be—in waking or in dreams."

Ben didn't see. He had paid close attention, he had
listened as instructed, and he still didn't see. What was
the point of all this and what did it have to do with him^

But there was no more time to consider the matter. A
shout from Abernathy—or rather a sort of bark—cap-
tured the attention of all. The boughs at the edge of the
grove of fir parted and who should appear but Parsnip'
Bunion had him in tow, both of them soaked through by
the storm, both grimacing ear to ear those wicked, toothy
grins. Ben froze. Parsnip was supposed to be guarding
Willow! Shaking off his paralysis, he hastened forward
with Questor and Abernathy to greet the wiry little crea-
tures, stopped short at the hard, suspicious look directed

Terry Brooks 229

at him by Parsnip—who, after all, had no idea yet who
he was—and finally backed off a step at Questor's urging.
Questor and Bunion conversed briefly back and forth in
the rough, guttural language of the kobolds with occa-
sional interjections by Parsnip, and then Questor turned
hurriedly to Ben.

"Parsnip has kept watch over Willow since she left
Sterling Silver, High Lord—just as you commanded—
until yesterday. She dismissed him without reason. When
he wouldn't leave her, she used the fairy magic and
slipped away. Even a kobold can't stay with a sylph when
she doesn't wish it. She has the golden bridle, and . . .
and she searches for the black unicorn." He shook his
owlish features at the look on Ben's face and tugged wor-
riedly at his white beard. "I know. I don't understand this
last either, High Lord, and neither does Parsnip. Appar-
ently she has decided not to take the bridle to you as her
dream instructed!"

Ben fought off the sudden lurch in his stomach. What
did this mean, he wondered? "Where is she now?" he
asked instead.

Questor shook his head. "Her trail leads north into the
Melchor." He hesitated. "Bunion says she appears to be
traveling toward Mirwouk!"

Mirwouk? Where the missing books of magic had been
hidden? Why would she go there? Ben felt his frustration
increase.

"There is more, High Lord," Abernathy interjected
solemnly, ignoring the warning tug on his tunic sleeve
from Questor. "Strabo and Nightshade are at hunt—pre-
sumably for you. Willow, and the bridle. And a demon—
a huge, flying thing, a thing that answers to no one, it
seems—is rumored to scour the whole of the valley. Bun-
ion saw it last night."

"Meeks' pet," Ben whispered, remembering suddenly
the monster that had appeared at the dance of the River
Master's nymphs and destroyed them. His face tightened.

THE BLACK UNICORN

Edgewood Dirk and the matter of dreams were forgotten.
He thought now only of Willow. "We have to reach her
before they do," he announced, his voice sounding hollow
in his ears as he fought down the fear that raced through
him. "We have to. We're all she has."

Everyone reacted. Abemathy barked sharply at the
G'home Gnomes and turned the kobolds about once
more. Questor put a reassuring hand on Ben's arm. "We
will find her. High Lord. You can depend upon it."

Quickly they departed into the wastelands, the stranger
who was High Lord, the wizard and the scribe, the ko-
bolds and the gnomes.

Edgewood Dirk sat quietly and watched them go.

a-

•B

Mirwoul^
ai?d Ftypt

a. •a

Willow felt the glare of the midday heat on her face
through breaks in the forest trees and was suddenly
thirsty. She made her way gingerly around an outcropping
of rock that jutted from the ever-steepening slope,
climbed to a shelf of tall grass and brush that disappeared
ahead into a grove of deeply shaded fir, and paused to
look back. Landover spread away below, an irregular
checkerboard of fields and forests, hills and plains, rivers
and lakes, swatches of blues and greens with brush
strokes of pastel interspersed like webbing. Sunlight
poured down over the valley from a cloudless blue sky
and deepened the colors until they blinded with their
brilliance.

Willow sighed. It seemed impossible that anything
could be wrong on a day such as this.

She was deep within the Melchor now, past the thresh-
old of hardwood forests, past the higher plateau of pine-
wooded foothills, a fair distance up into the main peaks.
The sun was sharp and hot this day where the shade failed
to screen away its light, and the climb was thirsty work.
Willow carried no water with her; she relied on her in-
stincts to find what she needed. Her instincts had failed
231

THE BLACK UNICORN

her these past few hours since leaving the foothills, but
now she sensed water to be close again.

Nevertheless, she stayed where she was a moment
longer and looked out across the valley in silent contem-
plation. Far, far distant to the south she could just catch
a glimpse of the misted island that was Sterling Silver,
and she thought of Ben. She wished' he were here with
her or that she understood why it was that she wasn't
there with him. She looked out across the valley and felt
as if she were all alone in the world.

What was she doing here?

She felt burdened by the weight of the woolen-bundled
harness she wore draped across her right shoulder, ana
she shrugged it off and let it drop into her hands. A burst
of sunlight flashed sharply from a stray bit of trapping
that slipped from beneath the covering folds. The bridle
of spun gold clinked softly. She covered it over and shifted
it to her other shoulder. The bridle was heavy, the wove?
threads and fastenings more cumbersome than she would
have believed. She adjusted it carefully and straightened
She had been fortunate that the dragon had agreed to givi
it to her. All the fairy songs, music, tears, and laughtci
had been potent magic indeed. Strabo had been charmed
She was still surprised that the ploy had been successful
She was still mystified that she had known somehow that
it would be. Dreams, visions, and hunches—such were
the vicissitudes that had driven her these past few days,
a stray leaf blown by the wind.

Last night it had been a dream again. She frowned af
its memory, her smooth, lovely face lined with worry
Last night, the dream had been of Ben.

A breath of wind swept back her waist-length hair anU
cooled her skin. She remembered her need to drink, but
stayed yet another moment to think of her High Lord
The dream had been strange again, a mix of real and sur-
real, a jumble of fears and hopes. She had come upon the
black unicorn once more, the creature hidden in woods

Terry Brooks

233

and shadows, no demon this time but a hunted thing,
frightened and alone. She had feared it, but wept at its
terror. What frightened it was uncertain, but the look it
spared her was unmistakable. Come to me, it had whis-
pered. Put aside your plan to carry back the bridle of spun
gold to Sterling Silver and your High Lord. Forego your
race from the demon you fear me to be and seek instead
the truth of what I am. Willow, come to me.

A single look had said all that, so clear, so certain—a
dream, and yet real. So she had come, trusting to her fairy
instincts as she had always trusted, believing that they
alone of all her senses could not be deceived. She had
abandoned the call of the first dream that would have
taken her to Ben and gone instead in search of ...

Of what? Truth?

"Why are the dreams so different?" she questioned
softly. "Why am I made so confused?"

Sunlight sparkled off distant waters and forest leaves
rippled in the passing wind, but no answers came. She
breathed the air deeply and turned away. The shadows
of the forest drew her to them, and she let herself be
swallowed. Mirwouk was near, she realized in surprise—
not more than several miles distant, just beyond the peak
she climbed. The fact registered briefly and was forgotten.
The broad swath of midday sunlight faded into a scattering
of narrow bands, and the shade was cool on her heated
skin. She worked her way back into the forest trees, mas-
sive fir and pine, seeking the water she knew was hidden
there. She found it quickly, a small stream trickling down
out of the rocks into a pool and meandering from there
to a series of shallows and runs. She laid the bridle care-
fully on the ground next to her and bent to drink. The
water was sweet and welcome to her dry throat. She knelt
a long time in the stillness.

The seconds slipped away into minutes. When she lifted
her head again, the black unicorn stood across from her.

Her breath caught in her throat and she froze. The uni-

THE BLACK UNICORN

234

corn was no more than a dozen paces off, half within
shadow, half within pale, filtered sunlight. It was a vision
of grace and wonder, slender body as ephemeral as a re
flection of love remembered, presence as glorious as a
rainbow's sweep. It did not move, but simply regarded
her. Ebony body with goat's feet and lion's tail, eyes of
green fire, immortal life—all the songs of all the bards
through all the ages of the world could not begin to express
what the unicorn truly was.

Willow felt a rush of emotion tear through her, stripping
bare her soul. She felt her heart begin to break with the
ecstasy of it. She had never seen a unicorn and never
thought it would be like this. There were tears in her eyes,
and she swallowed uncontrollably against what she was.
feeling.

"Oh, you beautiful thing," she whispered.

Her voice was so soft that she believed only she could
hear her words. But the unicorn nodded in response, and
the ridged horn shone brightly with magic. The green eyes
fixed upon her with new intensity and flared from some
inner well of being. Willow felt something seize hold
within her. Her hand groped blindly the earth next to h&r
and came to rest at last upon the bridle.

Oh, I must have you, she thought. I must make you
mine!

But the eyes held her and she could not move to act
upon her need. The eyes held her, and they whispered ot
something remembered from the dream.

Come to me, they said. Seek me.

She felt herself flush with the heat of that memory and
then go cool. She saw the memory reflected in her eyes,
in her mind, and in her heart. She looked across the tiny
stream of water as it rushed and gurgled over the rocks
in the forest stillness, and the stream was a river she could
not bridge. She listened to the singing of birds in the trees,
a mingling of songs that cheered and heartened, and the
sound became the voice of all her secrets revealed.

Terry Brooks 235

She felt magic rage within her in waves of insistence
she had never known could exist. She no longer belonged
to herself; she belonged now to the unicorn. She would
have done anything for it. Anything.

Then, in the next instant, it was gone, disappearing so
suddenly and so completely that it might never have been.
Indeed, she wondered—had it? Willow stared at the space
the black unicorn had occupied, an emptiness of mingled
light and shadow, and she fought against the sharpness
of her pain.

Had she seen the unicorn? Truly seen it? Had it been
real?

The questions left her dazed. She could not move.
Then, slowly, purposefully, she rose to her feet, shoul-
dered again the golden bridle, and moved with quiet de-
termination in search of her answers.

She searched all that day. Yet she did not search so much
as follow, for there was a sense of being led that she could
not explain. She climbed through the tangle of rocks and
trees and scrub that carpeted the uneven heights of the
Melchor and sought a thing that might not even be. She
thought she saw the black unicorn several times more,
brief flashes only—an ebony flank, an emerald eye, a
ridged horn shining with magic. It did not occur to her
that her efforts might be misdirected. She chased quite
deliriously and without regret. She knew that the unicorn
was there, just beyond her reach. She could feel it waiting
for her; she could sense it watching. She did not know its
purpose, but she was certain of its need.

Nightfall found her less than a mile west of Mirwouk,
exhausted, still alone. She had traversed the forest all
about the aging, crumbling fortress. She had retraced her
own steps several times. She was no nearer the black
unicorn than she had been when she had first spied it, but
she was as determined as ever that she would catch up
to it. At dawn, she would try again.

THE BLACK. UNICORN

236

She lay down within a sheltering of birch, hugged the
bridle of spun gold within its woolen covering close
against her breast, and let the cool night air wash over
her. Slowly the heat of the day faded, and her exhaustion
slipped away. She slept undisturbed and dreamed once
more.

Her dream this night was of dozens of white unicorns
chained and fettered and begging to be set free. The dream
was like a fever that would not break.

From shadows close at hand, eyes of green fire kept
watch through the night.

Ben Holiday and his companions spent that night within
the Melchor as well, although they were still some dis-
tance from Mirwouk and Willow. They were camped just
above the foothills leading into the mountains and lucky
to be that far. It had taken them the better part of the day
just to get out of the wastelands, and they had trekked
on through the late afternoon and evening to reach the
base of the mountains. Ben had insisted. The kobolds had
found Willow's tracks near sundown, and Ben thought
they might catch up to her yet that day. It was only after
complete darkness had set in and Questor had pleaded
with Ben to be reasonable that the search was temporarily

abandoned.

It resumed at daybreak, and the little company found
itself less than a mile below Mirwouk by midmorning. It
was then that matters began to grow confusing.

The confusion was manifold. In the first place, Wil-
low's trail was leading toward Mirwouk. Since she wasn't
carrying the golden bridle to Ben—or Meeks disguised as
Ben—it was somewhat uncertain what it was that she was
doing with it. Possibly she was searching for the black
unicorn, although that didn't make much sense, since in
her dream the black unicorn had been a demon creature
that threatened her, and she still didn't know that the
dream had been sent by Meeks. Whatever she was doing.

Terry Brooks

237

she was definitely going toward Mirwouk, and Mirwouk
was where Questor's dream had taken him in search of
the missing books of wizard magic and where, in fact, the
missing books had been found.

In the second place, the kobolds had discovered that
twice already Willow's tracks had retraced themselves.
Sylphs were fairy creatures and not in the habit of getting
lost, so that meant either she was searching for something
or following something. But there was no indication at all
of what that might be.

In the third place, Edgewood Dirk was still among the
missing. No one had seen the cat since they had departed
their shelter of two nights earlier, following Bunion's re-
turn with Parsnip and the news of Willow's tracks. Ben
hadn't paid much attention to Dirk's absence until now,
too caught up in his search for Willow really to notice.
But confronting these other puzzles had led him almost
without thinking to look around for Dirk, perhaps in the
vain hope of getting a straight answer from the beast for
once; but Dirk was nowhere to be found.

Ben took it all in stride. There wasn't much any of them
could do to clear up the confusion just now, so he simply
ordered them to press on.

They crossed Willow's tracks a third time within a
stone's throw of Mirwouk, and this time the kobolds
hesitated. The new trail was fresher than the old. Should
they follow it?

Ben nodded and they did.

By midday, they had circled Mirwouk almost com-
pletely and crossed Willow's tracks yet a fourth time.
Now she was moving away from the aged fortress. Bunion
studied the tracks for several minutes, his face almost
pressed up against the earth in his effort to read the mark-
ings. He announced finally that he couldn't tell which
tracks were more recent. All seemed quite fresh.

The members of the little company stood staring at each
other for a moment, undecided. Sweat lay in a thin sheen

THE BLACK UNICORN

238

across the faces of Ben and Questor, and the G'home
Gnomes were whining that they were thirsty. Abemathy
was panting. Dust covered all of them like a mist. Eyes
squinted against the glaring light of the sun, and faces
grimaced and tightened with discomfort. They were all
weary and cross and they were all sick and tired of running
around in circles.

Though anxious to continue, Ben was nevertheless re-
luctantly considering the idea of a lunch break and a brief
rest when a crashing sound brought him sharply about.
The crashing sound was of stone breaking and falling. It
was coming from the direction of Mirwouk.

He looked at the others questioningly, but no one
seemed anxious to venture an opinion.

"Couldn't hurt to check it out at least," Ben declared
and resolutely started off to investigate, the others trailing
with various degrees of enthusiasm.

They picked their way upward through the tangle of
scrub and trees, watching the crumbling walls and towers
of Mirwouk appear through breaks in the branches and
rise up before them. Parapets loomed against the skyline,
ragged and broken, and shutteriess windows gaped emp-
tily. Bats darted past in shadowy bursts and cried out
sharply. Ahead, the crashing sounds continued—almost
as if something was trapped and trying to break free. The
minutes slipped away. The little company approached the-
sagging gates of the fortress and drew to a halt, listening.

The crashing sounds had stopped.

"I don't like this one bit," Abemathy announced
darkly.

"High Lord, perhaps we ought to. . ."Questor Thews
began, then stopped as he saw a look of disapproval cross
Ben's face.

"Perhaps we ought to have a look," Ben finished.

So they did, Ben leading, the kobolds a step behind,
the others trailing. They passed through the gates, crossed
the broad outer courtyard beyond, and slipped into the

Terry Brooks 239

passageway that ran from the secondary wall to the inner
courtyard and the main buildings. The passageway was
long and dark and it smelled of rot. Ben wrinkled his nose
in distaste and hurried ahead. There was still only silence.

Ben reached the end of the tunnel a dozen steps ahead
of everyone and was thinking to himself that he might
have been smarter to send Bunion ahead to look things
over when he caught sight of the stone giant. It was huge
and ugly, a featureless, rough-hewn monstrosity that
looked like the beginning stages of some novice sculptor's
efforts at a tribute to Hercules. It appeared to be just a
grotesque statue at first, standing there in the middle of
the inner courtyard amid a pile of stone rubble. But then
the statue moved, turning with a ponderous effort that
sounded of rock grating on rock, and it became imme-
diately apparent that this particular statue was very much
alive.

Ben stared in bewilderment, not quite certain yet what
to do. A sudden tumult rose from the tunnel behind him,
and the others of the company emerged in a rush and
practically ran over him in their haste to get clear. The
G'home Gnomes were no longer whining; they were howl-
ing like injured cats. Abemathy and Questor were both
yelling at once, and the kobolds were hissing and showing
all their teeth in an unmistakable display of hostility. It
took Ben a moment to realize that they weren't respond-
ing to anything they saw at this end of the tunnel but to
something they had seen at the other.

Ben peered hurriedly past the frenzied group, neck
craning. A second stone giant had entered the passageway
and was lumbering toward them.

Questor grasped his elbow as if he might strangle it.
"High Lord, that is a Rynt! It will smash us to dust if
we let it get close enough . . . ! Ecchhh!" He saw the
second one now, as it, too, lumbered forward. "Two of
them! Run, High Lord—this way!"

The kobolds were already moving, leading the pack of

240 THE BLACK UNICORN

them across the courtyard to an entryway that disap-
peared into the fortress proper. The first Flynt had joined
the second and both were in pursuit, shambling giants that
moved like bulldozers.

The company burst through the entryway and galloped
up a flight of stairs.

"What's a Flynt?" Ben demanded of Questor as they
fled. "I don't remember your telling me anything about
Flynts!"

"I probably didn't tell you anything, High Lord,"
Questor acknowledged, breathing hard now. His robes
tangled in his feet and he almost went down. "Drat!" He
straightened, moving quickly on. "Flynts are aberra-
tions—a creation of old magic, stone monsters brought
to life. Very dangerous! They were sentinels of this for-
tress once, but I thought they were all destroyed centuries
ago. Wizards created them. They don't think, they don't
eat, they don't sleep, they barely see or smell—but they
hear everything. Their intended purpose was to keep in-
truders out of Mirwouk, but of course that was a long
time ago, so who knows what they think their purpose
might be now? They seem rather intent on just smashing
things. Ugh!" He slowed momentarily and somehow
managed to look genuinely thoughtful. "Odd that I didn't
come across them when I was here last."

Ben rolled his eyes and pulled the wizard ahead.

They reached the top of the stairwell and emerged on
a parapet roof about the size of a tennis court. Rubble
littered the playing surface. There were no referees in
sight and only one other way out—a second stairwell at
the far end. The company broke for it as one.

When they reached it, they found it blocked with
enough timber and stone to build a set of bleachers.

"Wonderful!" Ben groaned.

"I told you I didn't like this!" Abemathy declared with
a bark that surprised everyone.

The Flynts emerged from the far stairwell, lookea

Terry Brooks 241

slowly about, and began to lumber toward them. Bunion
and Parsnip moved protectively in front of the others.

Now it was Ben's turn to grab Questor. "The kobolds
can't stop those things, damn it! Dredge up some magic!"

Questor moved hurriedly forward, robes flying, tall fig-
ure swaying as if he might topple over. He muttered some-
thing unintelligible, lifted his arms skyward, and brought
them down in a grand sweep. Funnel clouds sprang up
from out of nowhere, picked up the loose rubble, and
hurtled it at the approaching stone monsters. Unfortu-
nately, the funnel clouds also hurtled some of it back at
Questor. The rubble bounced harmlessly off the Flynts.
It did not bounce harmlessly off Questor; the wizard went
down in a heap, unconscious and bleeding.

Ben and the kobolds rushed to pull the wizard back
from further harm. The Flynts still lumbered forward,
stone blocks and rubble cracking like deadwood beneath
their massive feet.

Ben knelt anxiously. "Questor! Get up! We need you!"
He slapped the fallen wizard's face desperately, rubbed
his wrists, and shook him. Questor didn't move. His owl-
ish face was pale beneath the blood.

Ben leaped back to his feet. Individually, perhaps, the
members of the little company were swift and agile
enough to evade these stone monsters. Perhaps. But that
was before Questor's injury. No one would get away
trying to carry out the wizard, and they were certainly
not about to leave him. Ben seized the medallion frantic-
ally and let go just as quickly. Useless. He was Meeks'
creation now, his medallion a worthless imitation. There
could be no help from the magic; there could be no sum-
mons to the Paladin.

But he had to do something!

"Abemathy!"

The dog's cold nose shoved into his ear, and he jerked
away. "High Lord?"

"These things can't see, taste, or smell—but they can

THE BLACK UNICORN

hear, right? Hear anything? Anything even close to Mir-
wouk, maybe?"

"I am given to understand that the Flynts can hear a
pin drop at fifty paces, though I often ..."

"Never mind the editorials!" Ben pulled the dog about
to face him, furry features held close, glasses glinting with
sunlight. "Can you hit high C?"

Abernathy blinked. "High Lord?"

"High C, damn it—can you howl loud enough to hit
high C?" The Flynts were no more than a dozen paces
off. "Well, can you?"

"I don't see . . ."

"Yes or no!"

He was shaking his scribe. Abernathy's muzzle drew
back, and he barked right in Ben's face. "Yes!"

"Then do it!" Ben screamed.

The whole roof seemed to be shaking. The G'home
Gnomes had fastened themselves to Ben once more,
crying, "Great High Lord, mighty High Lord" in chorus
and wailing like lost souls. The kobolds were crouched
in front of him, ready to spring. The Flynts looked like
tanks bearing down.

Then Abernathy began to howl.

He hit high C on the first try, a frightening wail that
drowned out the G'home Gnomes and expanded the gri-
maces on the faces of the kobolds into a whole new di-
mension. The wail lifted and spread, cutting throug;'
everything with the tenacity ofgastrically induced stress
The Flynts stopped in their tracks and their massive hands
came up against the sides of their heads with a crash as
they tried in vain to shut out the sound. It came at them
relentlessly—Ben would never have believed Abernathy
capable of such sustained agony—and all the while, the}
battered at themselves.

Finally, the pounding proved to be too much, and the
Flynts simply shattered and fell apart. Heads, arms, toi-

Terry Brooks

243

sos, and legs collapsed into piles of useless rock. The dust
rose and settled again, and nothing moved.

Abernathy stopped howling, and there was a moment
of strained silence. The scribe straightened and glared at
Ben with undisguised fury. "I have never been so hu-
miliated, High Lord!" he snarled. "Howling like a dog,
indeed! I have debased myself in a way I would not have
thought possible!"

Ben cleared his throat. "You saved our lives," he
pointed out simply. "That's what you did."

Abemathy started to say something more, stopped, and
simply continued to glare voicelessly. Finally he took a
deep breath of air, exhaled, straightened some more,
sniffed distastefully, and said, "When we get those books
of magic back, the first thing you will do with them is find
a way to turn me back into a human being!"

Ben hastily masked the smile that would have been his
undoing. "Agreed. The first thing."

Hurriedly they picked up Questor Thews and carried
him back down the stairway and out of Mirwouk. They
encountered no further Flynts. Perhaps the two they had
escaped had been the last, Ben thought as they hastened
back into the trees.

"Still, it is odd that Questor didn't see them the first
time," he repeated the wizard's observation to no one in
particular.

"Odd? Not so odd if you consider the possibility that
Meeks put them there after he had the books, expressly
to prevent anyone from coming back into the fortress!"
Abemathy huffed. He would not look at Ben. "Really,
High Lord—1 would have thought you could figure that
one out by yourself!"

Ben endured the admonishment silently. He could have
figured it out by himself, but he hadn't, so what was there
to say? What he couldn't figure out now was why Meeks
would bother placing guards at Mirwouk. After all, the
missing books of magic were already in his possession!

244

THE BLACK UNICORN

He dropped that question into the hopper with all the
other unanswered questions and concentrated on helping
the others lay Questor on a patch of shaded grass. Parsnip
wiped away the dust and blood from the wizard's face and
brought him out of his stupor. Questor recovered after a
brief period of treatment, Parsnip patched up his injuries
and the little company was back on its feet, once more.

"This time we follow Willow's tracks—however many
of them there are—until we find her!" Ben declared
resolutely.

"//we find her," Abernathy muttered.

But no one heard him and off they went again.

B'

•t3

Discovery

B.

.B

The heat of the midday sun settled down across the forests
of the Melchor in a suffocating blanket and turned its cool-
ing shadows tepid and dank. Morning breezes died away
and the air grew thick and still. Insects hummed their
toneless songs, leaves hung limp from their branches, and
the warm-blooded life of the woodland lay patient and
quiet. There was a slowing of time and purpose.

Willow paused at the base of a giant white oak, the
weight of the spun gold bridle tugging relentlessly down-
ward on her shoulders where it lay draped across them.
A bright sheen of sweat coated the pale green skin of her
face and hands, and her lips parted slightly as she worked
harder to catch her breath. She had been walking since
sunrise, following the black unicorn as it came and went
in wisps of dream and shadow, trailing after as if she were
a stray bit of dust drawn on in the wake of its passing.
She had traveled the whole of the Melchor about Mirwouk
half-a-dozen times over, crossing and recrossing her trail
time after time, a senseless journey of whim and chance.
She was west of Mirwouk now, scarcely a mile from the
aged fortress, but she was barely aware of it, and it would
have made no difference to her had she taken the time to
think about it. She had long since ceased to care about

245

246 THE BLACK UNICORN

anything but the subject of her search; all else had become
irrelevant.

She must find the unicorn. She must know its truth.

She let her eyes glaze slightly with the memory of last
night's dream and wondered anew at its meaning.

Then she drew herself upright and continued on, a frail
and tiny bit of life amid the giant trees of the mountain
forest, a child strayed. She worked her way slowly
through a grove of fir and pine clustered so thick that the
boughs interlocked, barely glanced at a stand of Bonnie
Blues beyond, and pressed upward along a gentle slope
that led to a meadow plateau. She picked her way with
careful steps, remembering wearily that she had passed
this way before—once, twice, more? She wasn't certain
It didn't matter. She listened to the sound of her heart
pounding through her neck and in her ears. It was very
loud. It was almost the only sound in the forest. It became
the measure of each step she took.

How much farther? she wondered as the heat pressed
down. When am I to stop?

She crested the meadowline, paused in the shadow of
a long-limbed crimson maple, and closed her eyes against
the uncertainty. When she opened them again, the black
unicorn stood facing her.

"Oh!" she breathed softly.

The unicorn stood at the center of the meadow, framed
in a splash of unclouded sunlight. It was ink black, so
perfectly opaque that it might have been sculpted from
midnight's shadows. It faced her, head lifted, mane acd
tail limp in the breezeless air, a statue carved out of
ageless ebony. The green eyes regarded her steadily
and within their depths called to her. She breathed the
sullen heat into her lungs and felt the scorch of the sun's
brightness. She listened. The eyes of the unicorn spoke
soundlessly, images caught and reflected from dreams
remembered and visions lost. She listened, and she knew.

The chase was over. The black unicorn would run from

Terry Brooks

247

her no longer. It was to this time and place that she had
been brought. It only remained for her to discover why.

She came forward tentatively, still half expecting with
every step she took that the unicorn would disappear, that
it would bolt and run. It did not. It simply stood there—
motionless, dreamlike. She slipped the bridle from her
shoulders and held it loosely in her hands before her, let-
ting the unicorn see it clearly. Sunlight danced off the
traces and fastenings, brilliant flashes that pierced the for-
est shadows. The unicorn waited. Willow passed from the
shade of the crimson maple into the meadow's sunshine,
and the sweltering heat enveloped her. Her sea green eyes
blinked away a sudden film of moisture, and she shook
back her long hair. The unicorn did not move.

She was only a dozen feet from the creature when ab-
ruptly she slowed and then stopped. She could not go on.
Waves of fear, suspicion, and doubt washed through her,
a mingling of whispers that cried out in sudden warning.
What was she doing? What was she thinking? The black
unicorn was a creature of such ill fortune that no one who
had come close to it had been seen again! It was the demon
of her dreams! It was the nightmare that had pursued her
in her sleep, hunting her as death would!

She felt the weight of the fairy creature's eyes settle
on her. She felt its presence as she would a sickness. She
struggled to break and run and could not. Desperately,
she fought against the emotions that threatened to con-
sume her and banished them. She took deep, long breaths
of the sullen midday air and forced herself to look into
the creature's emerald eyes. She kept her gaze fixed.
There was no hint of sickness or death in those eyes—
no hint of demon evil. There was gentleness and
warmth—and need.

She came forward another few steps.

Then something new slowed her. There was a flash of
intuition that swept her mind momentarily, quick and cer-
tain. Ben was near, come in search of... of what?

THE BLACK UNICORN

248

"Ben?" she whispered, waiting.

But there was no one. She was alone with the unicorn
She did not look away from the creature, but she sense.
nevertheless that they were alone. She wet her lips ar'-,
came forward again.

And again she stopped. Her breast heaved. "I cannoi
touch you," she murmured to the flawless, impossible
wondrous fairy thing. "I cannot. It will be the end of m»
if I do."

She knew it was so. She knew it instinctively, the wa'
she had always known. No one could touch a unicorn; n"
one had that right. It belonged to a realm of beauty that
no mortal creature should ever attempt to transcend, h
had wandered into Landover, a bit of some rainbow bro-
ken off from its dark storm's end arc, and it should nevt r
be held by hands such as hers. Memories of legends apc1
songs whispered in snatches of warning. She felt teai^
start down her cheeks and her breath catch in her throa*

Beautiful thing, I cannot. . .

But she did. Almost before she realized what was hap-
pening, she was covering those last few paces in quick,
mechanical steps, moving without thinking about what
she was doing, reaching out to the midnight creature, ard
placing the bridle of spun gold gently, carefully about ii1
waiting head. She brushed its silken face with her finger
as she worked, and the touch was electric. She felt th"
whisper of its mane against the backs of her hands, ard
the sensation was rife with wonder. Fresh images sprars,
unbidden into her thoughts, jumbled and not yet under-
standable, but irresistible nevertheless. She touched ths,
unicorn freely now, reveling in the sensations it caused
within her. She could not seem to help herself. She could
not stop. She was crying anew, her emotions all uncov
ered, brought close to the surface of her being. Tears ran
down her cheeks as she began to sob uncontrollably.

"I love you," she cried desperately, her hands falling

Terry Brooks 249

away at last when the bridle was in place. "Oh, I love
you so much, you beautiful, wondrous thing!"

The black unicorn's horn shone white with magic as it
held her gaze, and there were tears now in its eyes as
well. For a single moment, they were joined.

Then the moment was gone, and the world beyond in-
truded with a rush. A huge, dark shadow passed overhead
and settled earthward at the clearing's far edge. In the
same instant, a familiar scattering of voices called her
name frantically from the clearing's other end. Her
dreams took life, their images suddenly, terrifyingly all
about. Whispers of the warnings that had brought her to
this moment turned abruptly to screams of dismay in her
mind.

She felt the black unicorn shudder violently next to her
and watched the white magic of its horn flare. But it did
not bolt into the woods. Whatever happened next, it
would run no further.

So be it. Neither would she.

Woodenly, she turned to discover their fate.

Ben Holiday burst from the trees into the meadow and
stopped so abruptly that the others of the little company
who followed after stumbled into him in their eagerness
to keep up and knocked him forward another few steps.
They were all yelling at once, calling out to Willow in
warning where she stood at the meadow's center, the
black unicorn at her side. The shadow of the winged
demon had passed overhead a moment earlier, a mon-
strous cloud against the sun. It was only the worst of luck
that could have brought them all together at this same
place and time, but the worst of luck seemed to be the
only luck Ben could count on. He had tracked Willow to
this meadow after escaping the Flynts, believing the worst
to be behind him. Now the demon had found them. He
saw again in his mind the River Master's doomed nymphs
as the demon burned them to ash and he thought of his

THE BLACK UNICORN

250

promise to the Earth Mother to protect Willow. But he
was helpless to do that. How was he going to protect
Willow without the medallion?

The demon flew overhead a second time, but it did not
attack the sylph or the unicorn or even Ben's little group.
Instead, it settled slowly earthward at the clearing's far
edge, leathered wings folding in against its body, breath
steaming with a hiss. Ben squinted against the sunlight
There was a rider atop the demon. The rider was Meeks.

And Meeks, of course, appeared to everyone watching
to be Ben.

Ben heard muttered whispers of surprise and confusion
from those crowded up behind him. He watched himself
climb slowly down from the demon; and even he had to
admit that Meeks looked exactly like him. His compan-
ions quit yelling, momentary indecision settling in. Ben
could feel their eyes bore into his back and could sense
the clouds of doubt gathering. He had told them who
he was and they had believed him, more or less, until
now. But actually seeing Ben Holiday standing there
in that clearing across from them was something else
altogether. . .

Then the black unicorn trumpeted, a high, eerie call,
and everyone turned. The fairy beast stamped and its nos-
trils flared, the bridle of spun gold dancing against the
sunlight with each toss of its delicate head. Magic flashed
in its ridged hom. The unicorn was a thing of impossible
beauty and it drew the eyes of all gathered like moths to
the light. It shuddered, but held its ground against the
weight of their stares. It seemed to be searching for
something.

Slowly Willow turned from the unicorn and began to
look about as well. Her gaze was curiously empty.

Ben wasn't sure what was happening, but he decided
almost instantly not to wait to find out. "Willow!" he
called to the sylph, and her eyes fixed on him. "Willow,
it's me, Ben!" He came forward afew steps, saw the lack

Terry Brooks 251

of recognition in her eyes, and stopped. "Listen to me.
Listen carefully. I know I don't look like myself. But it
is me. Meeks is responsible for everything that's hap-
pened. He's come back into Landover and stolen the
throne. He's changed me into this. Worse, he's made him-
self look like me. That's not me over there—that's
Meeks!"

She turned now to look over at Meeks, saw Ben's face
and body, and gave a quick gasp. But she saw the demon
as well. She took a step forward, stopped, and stepped
slowly back again.

"Willow, it's all right," Meeks called out to her in
Ben's voice. "Bring the unicorn to me. Pass me the reins
of the bridle."

"No!" Ben yelled frantically. "No, Willow!" He came
forward another few steps, stopping quickly as Willow
started to back away. "Willow, don't do it. Meeks sent
the dreams—all of them. He has the medallion. He has
the missing books of magic. Now he wants the unicorn!
I don't know why, but you can't let him have it! Please!"

"Willow, be careful of what you see," Meeks warned
in a quiet, soothing voice. "The stranger is dangerous,
and the magic he wields confuses. Come over to me before
he reaches you."

Ben was beside himself. "Look at whom I'm with, for
God's sake! Questor, Abernathy, Bunion, Parsnip, Fillip,
and Sot!" He turned and beckoned to those behind him.
But no one came forward. No one seemed quite sure that
they should. Ben felt a hint of desperation creep into his
voice as he faced Willow anew. "Why would they be with
me if I'm not who I say I am? They know the truth of
things!" He wheeled about once more, anger in his voice.
"Damn it, Questor, say something to her!"

The wizard hesitated, seemed to consider the advisa-
bility of doing what Ben asked, then straightened. "Yes,

he speaks the truth. He is the High Lord, Willow," he
said finally.

THE BLACK UNICOR ,\

2^2

There were muttered hissings and murmurings of agree-
ment from the others, including a few pleas of "Save us,
great High Lord, mighty High Lord" from the G'home
Gnomes, who were hiding now behind Questor's robes.

Ben turned back. "Willow, come over here quickly!
Please! Get away!"

But now Meeks had /come forward several paces and
he was smiling Ben's most reassuring smile. "Willow, I
love you," he told her. "I love you and I want to protect
you. Come here to me. What you see from the stranger
is all illusion. He has no support from our friends; they
are just false images. You can see the truth of things if
you look. Do you see me? Am I anyone different from
the one I always was? What you are hearing are lies! Re-
member the dream! You must pick up the reins of the
bridle and bring the black unicorn to me to be safe from
the dangers that threaten! These illusions pretending
friendship are the dangers of your dream! Come to me
now and be safe!"

Willow was looking first one way and then the other,
confusion evident in her face. Behind her, the black uni-
corn stamped and snorted delicately, a bit of shadow
caught in the sunlight, bound in place by ties no one else
could see. Ben was frantic. He had to do something!

"Show me the rune stone!" Willow called out sud-
denly, head jerking from Ben to Meeks and back again.
"Let me see the stone I gave you!"

Ben went cold. The rune stone, the milky-colored tal-
isman that warned of danger when it threatened. "I don't
have it!" he called back helplessly. "I lost it when . . ."

"I have it right here!" Meeks announced in triumph,
cutting him short. The wizard reached beneath his robes
and brought forth the rune stone—or something that ap-
peared to be the rune stone—glowing bright red. He held
it up for inspection.

"Ben!" Willow asked softly, some of the hope coming

Terry Brooks                                 253

back into her face. "Is it you?" Ben felt his stomach lurch
as the girl started away from him.

"One moment!" Questor Thews called suddenly, and
everyone turned. "You must have dropped this, High
Lord," he advised officiously, coming forward a step or
two more, the G'home Gnomes shaken free momentarily
from his robes. He held out the rune stone Willow had
given Ben—at least, his magic made it seem like the
stone—and let everyone have a good look. The stone
glowed crimson.

Ben had never been more grateful to the wizard in his
life. "Thank you, Questor," he breathed quietly.

Willow had stopped again. Slowly, she backed away
from them all, the indecision returned. There was fear
now in her face as well. "I do not know which of you is
Ben," she told them quietly. "Perhaps neither of you."

Her words lingered in the sudden stillness that fol-
lowed. A frightening tension settled down across the sun-
lit meadow with its chessboard of frozen figures, each
ready to move in a different direction, each poised to
strike. Willow pressed back toward the black unicorn,
eyes shifting from one set of playing pieces to another,
waiting. Behind her, the unicorn had gone still.

I have to do something, Ben told himself once more
and wondered frantically what it ought to be.

Then out of the woods strolled Edgewood Dirk. The
cat might have been out for an afternoon walk, sauntering
with an unconcerned air from the trees, picking its way
delicately through the scrub grass and flowers, head and
tail held high as it stepped, eyes looking neither right nor
left. It paid no attention to any of them. It seemed almost
to have stumbled onto things by accident. Dirk walked
directly to the center of the clearing, stopped, glanced
casually around at those assembled, and sat down.

"Good day," he greeted them.

Meeks let out a shriek that brought them all out of their
boots and flung back his cloak. The Ben Holiday disguise

THE BLACK UNICORN

254

shimmered like a reflection in the waters of a pond dis-
turbed by a thrown stone and began to disintegrate. Wil-
low screamed. The wizard's clawed hands lifted and
extended, and green fire lanced wickedly toward Edge-
wood Dirk. But the cat had already begun to change, the
small furry body growing, shimmering, and smoothing
until it was as crystalline as'a diamond. The wizard fire
struck it and broke apart, scattering like refracted light
into the sunlit air, showering the trees and grass and
scorching the earth.

Ben was racing desperately toward Willow by this time,
yelling like a madman. But the sylph was already beyond
his reach. Eyes frantic, she had pressed herself back
against the black unicorn and seized the golden bridle that
bound the fairy creature. The unicorn was stamping and
rearing, crying out its own high-pitched, eerie call, and
darting back and forth in small dashes. Willow clung to
the beast as a frightened child would to its mother, grap-
pling with it, being dragged along as it went—away from
Ben.

"Willow!" he howled.

Meeks was still after Edgewood Dirk. The shards of
flame from his first attack had barely been scattered when
the wizard struck once more. Fire gathered and arced
from his hands in a massive ball, rolling and tumbling
through the air to explode into the cat. Dirk arched and
shuddered, and the flaming ball seemed to absorb itself
into the crystalline form. Then the fire exploded out agai
hurtling itself back toward the wizard in a shower of flair
ing darts. Meeks threw up his cloak like a shield, and th:

darts deflected everywhere. Some burned into the hi(^
of the demon crouching behind the wizard and it roared
and surged skyward with a rasp of fury.

Smoke and fire burned everywhere, and Ben stumbled
on blindly through the haze. Behind him, his companions
called out. Overhead, the winged demon blocked the sun,
its shadow darkening the meadow like an eclipse. The

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255

black unicorn sprang forward with a scream, and Willow
flung herself atop it. She might have done so out of instinct
or out of need, but the result was the same—she was
carried away. The unicorn darted past Ben so quickly he
barely saw it. He reached for it, but he was far too slow.
He had a brief glimpse of Willow's lithe form clinging to
its back, and then both disappeared into the trees.

Then the winged demon attacked. It dropped like a
stone toward the meadow, diving from the empty skies,
flames bursting from its maw. Ben dropped flat and cov-
ered his head. From the comer of one eye, he watched
as Dirk shimmered, hunched down against the force of
the fire, absorbed it, and thrust it back. Flames hammered
into the demon and sent the monster catapulting back.
Steam and smoke clogged the meadow air.

Meeks struck again, and Edgewood Dirk repelled the
assault. The demon struck, and the cat flung the fire back
once more. Ben rose, dropped, rose again, and staggered
blindly through the carnage. Shouts and cries reached out
to him, and visions floated through the haze before his
watering eyes. His hands groped and struggled to hold
something, anything—and finally fastened on the
medallion.

White heat burned into his palms. For just an instant,
he thought he saw the Paladin appear, a faint image some-
where in the distance, a silver, armor-clad figure astride
the great white charger.

Then the vision was gone again, a vision that had been
impossible in any case. No medallion, no Paladin—Ben
knew that. His throat constricted and he choked as the
fires of wizard and demon continued to hammer down on
Edgewood Dirk and be flung back again. Flowers and
grasses bumed to black ash. Trees shook and their leaves
wilted. The whole world seemed to be in flames.

And finally the meadow itself seemed to explode up-
ward in one vast, heaving cough, steam and fire ripping
through everything. Ben felt himself hurtled skyward like

THE BLACK UNICORN

256

a bit of deadwood, flying in a graceless scattering of arms
and legs, spinning like a pinwheel.
This is it, he thought just before he tumbled earthward.

This is how it all ends.

Then he struck with jarring force and everything went

dark.

a" •a

Cafs Paw

a. •a

Ben Holiday came awake again in a deeply shaded forest
glade that smelled of moss and wild flowers. Birds sang
in the trees, their songs bright and cheerful. A small
stream wound through the center of the clearing from the
woodlands and disappeared back into them again. There
was a stillness that whispered of peace and solitude.

Ben was lying on a patch of grass staring up into a
network of branches set against the cloudless sky. A
glimpse of the sun peeked through the leaves. He pushed
himself carefully upright, aware that his clothes were
singed and his hands and arms covered with soot. He took
a moment to check himself, feeling about for permanent
injuries. There were none—only bumps and bruises. But
he looked as if he had rolled through half-a-dozen
campfires.

"Feeling better, High Lord?"

He turned at the sound of the familiar voice and found
Edgewood Dirk sitting comfortably atop a large, mossy
rock, paws tucked carefully away. The cat blinked sleep-
ily and yawned.

"What happened to me?" Ben asked, realizing that this
clearly wasn't where he had started out; this wasn't the
257

THE BLACK UNICORN

258

meadow where he had lost consciousness. "How did I
get here?"

Dirk stood up, stretched, and sat down again. "I
brought you. It was quite a trick, actually, but I have
gotten rather good at using energy to transport inert ob-
jects. It did not seem advisable to leave you lying about
in that burned-out meadow."

"What about the others? What about Willow and ..."

"The sylph is with the black unicorn, I imagine. I
wouldn't know exactly where. Your companions were
scattered in every which direction. That last explosion
sent them all flying. Such magic is best left unused. Too
bad Meeks cannot understand that."

Ben blinked away a final rush of dizziness and studied
the cat. "He knew who you were, didn't he?"

"He knew what I was."

"Oh. How is that, Dirk?"

The cat seemed to consider the question. "Wizards and
prism cats have crossed paths a few times before, High
Lord."

"And not as friends, I gather?"

"Not usually."

"He seemed frightened of you."

"He is frightened of many things."

"He's not alone in that respect. What happened to

him?"

"He lost interest in the fight and flew off on his pet
demon. He has gone for the books of magic, I would
guess. He believes he requires their power. Then he will
be back. He will hunt you all down this time out, I think.
You had better prepare yourself."

Ben went cold. Slowly he straightened himself, feeling
the kinks in his body loosen. "I have to find the others,"
he began, trying to think his way through the wall of fear
and desperation that quickly settled in. "Damn! How am
I supposed to do that?" He started up, slowed as a diz-
ziness swept through him, and dropped back to one knee.

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259

"How am I supposed to help them at all, for that matter?
I would have been finished back there if not for you. This
whole business has gotten completely out of hand. I'm no
better off than I was the day Meeks had me thrown out
of the castle. I still don't know why it is that no one can
recognize me. I still don't have any idea how Meeks got
hold of the medallion. I still don't know what he wants
with the black unicorn. I don't know one thing more than
I ever did about what is going on!"

Dirk yawned anew. "Don't you?"

Ben didn't hear him. "I'll tell you one thing. I can't
handle this by myself. I never could. There isn't any point
in kidding myself; I have to have help. I'm going to do
what I should have done in the first place. I'm going into
the mists, medallion or no medallion, and find the fairies.
I'll do what I did before. I'll find them and ask them for
a magic that will let me stand up to Meeks. They helped
me with Nightshade; they'll help me with Meeks. They
have to."

"Ah, but that's not true, is it?" Dirk asked softly. "The
fairies help only when they choose. You know that, my
dear High Lord. You have always known that. You can-
not demand their aid; you can only wish for it. The choice
of giving or withholding it is always theirs."

"It doesn't matter." Ben shook his head stubbornly.
"I'm going into the mists. When I find them, I'll. . ."

"If you find them," Dirk interrupted.

Ben paused, then flushed. "It would be nice to have
some encouragement from you for a change! What makes
you think I won't find them?"

Dirk regarded him for a moment, then sniffed the air.
All about, the birds continued to sing indifferently. "Be-
cause they don't want you to find them. High Lord," the
cat said finally. He sighed. "You see, they have already
found you."

There was a long moment of silence as Ben and the cat

260 THE BLACK UNICORN

stared at each other, eyes locked. Ben cleared his throat.
"What?"

Dirk's eyes lidded to half-mast. "High Lord, who do
you think sent me?"

Ben sat back down slowly, crossed his legs before him,
and dropped his hands into his lap. "The fairies sent
you?" The cat said nothing. "But why? I mean, why you,
Dirk?"

"You mean, why a cat? Why not a dog? Or a lion or
a tiger? Or another Paladin, for that matter? Is that what
you mean?" Dirk's fur ruffled on the nape of his neck
and down the arch of his back. "Well, a cat is all that
you need or deserve, my dear High Lord! More, in point
of fact! I was sent to arouse your consciousness—to make
you think! I was not sent to provide salvation! If you want
salvation, you will have to find it within yourself! That is
the way it has always been and that is the way it will
always be!"

He stood up, jumped down from the rock, and strode
deliberately up to an astonished Ben. "I am tired of pussy-
footing around with you. I have told you everything you
need to know to counteract the magic that has been used
against you. I have done everything but shove your nose
in the truth of matters, and that I cannot do! That is for-
bidden! Fairy kind never reveal truth to mortal creatures.
But I have kept you safe on your journey when you
needed keeping safe, though you haven't needed it nearly
so often as you believed. I have watched over you and
guided you when I could. Most important of all, I have
kept you thinking and that in turn has kept you alive!"
He paused. "Well, all that is finished now. Your time for
thinking is just about up!"

Ben shook his head quickly. "Dirk, I can't just . . ."

"Let me finish!" the cat snapped. "When in the world
will humans leam to start listening to cats?" The green
eyes narrowed. "The fairies sent me to help you, High
Lord, but they left it to me to choose the means. They

Terry Brooks 261

did not advise me on what I was to do or say. They did
not tell me why it was that they believed I could help.
Such is not the way of the fairies—nor is it the way of
cats! We do as we choose in any case and live our lives
as we must. We play games because that is who we are.
Cat games or fairy games, it is all very much the same.
Ours, High Lord, is a much different world from your
own!"

One paw lifted. "Hear me well, then. No one is entitled
to be given answers to the problems that beset them. No
one is given life on a silver platter—cat or King! If you
wish to know the truth of things, you must find it out for
yourself. If you wish to understand what puzzles you,
reason it through for yourself. You believe yourself mired
in insolvable dilemmas. You believe yourself incapable
of breaking free. Your identity is gone, your kingdom sto-
len. Your enemies beset you, your friends are lost. It is
a chain of complications in which the links are joined,
Ben Holiday. Cut free a single link, and the chains fall
apart! But you are the one who carries the cutters—not
me, not anyone else. That is what I have been trying to
tell you from day one! Do you understand?"

Ben nodded hastily. "I understand."

The paw lowered again. "I hope so. Now I will say this
one more time. The magic you struggle against is magic
of deception—a mirror that alters in its reflection truths
and makes them half-truths and lies. If you can see past
the mirror, you can set yourself free. If you can set your-
self free, you can help your friends. But you had better
get busy!"

He stretched, turned, walked several paces away, and
turned back again. The forest glade was quiet now; even
the birds in the trees had gone still. Sunlight continued to
shine out of the skies from overhead, casting the dappled
shadows of the leaves and branches across the clearing
beneath, leaving Ben and Dirk spotted and striped.

"The dark wizard is frightened of you, Ben Holiday,"

262 THE BLACK. UNICORN

Dirk advised softly. "He knows you to be close to the
answers you need to break free, and he will try to destroy
you before that can happen. I have given you the means
to find the answers that will defeat him. Use those means.
You are an intelligent man. You have been a man who
has spent his life ordering other men's lives. Man of law,
man of power—order now your own!"

He moved soundlessly to the glade's edge, never look-
ing back. "I have enjoyed our time together, High Lord,"
he called back. "I have enjoyed our travels. But they are
over for now. I have other places to be and other ap-
pointments to keep. I will think of you. And one day,
perhaps, I will see you again."

"Wait, Dirk!" Ben called after, coming suddenly to his
feet, fighting against the continuing dizziness.

"I never wait, High Lord," the cat replied, now almost
lost in shadow. "Besides, there is nothing more I can do
for you. I have done everything I can. Good luck to you."

"Dirk!"

"Remember what I told you. And try listening to cats
once in a while, would you?"

"Dirk, damn it!"

"Good-bye."

And with that Edgewood Dirk disappeared into the for-
est and was gone.

Ben Holiday stared after the cat for a long time following
its departure, half expecting that it would return. It didn't,
of course, just as he had known all along somewhere deep
inside that it wouldn't. When he finally accepted the fact,
he quit looking for it and began to panic. He was all alone
for the first time since being cast out of Sterling Silver—
all alone and in the worst predicament of his life. He was
without his identity or his medallion, and he had no idea
at all how to regain either. Edgewood Dirk, his protector,
had deserted him. Willow had disappeared with the black
unicorn, still believing him. the stranger he appeared to

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263

be. His friends were scattered to heaven-knew-where.
Meeks had gone for the books of magic and would return
shortly to put an end to him.

And here he sat, waiting for it to happen.

He was stunned. He could not seem to think clearly.
He tried to reason, to think what he should do next, but
everything seemed to jumble up, the problems and needs
fighting for equal time in his thoughts. He rose, his mo-
tions mechanical, his eyes dead, and walked to the edge
of the little stream. He glanced once more after Dirk, saw
only empty forest, and turned back again, a feeling of
bleak resignation settling through him. He knelt down be-
side the stream and splashed water on his soot-blackened
face, rubbing it into his eyes. The water was like ice, and
it sent a shock through his system. He splashed some
more on, throwing it up over his head and shoulders, let-
ting the cold galvanize him.

Then he sat back, the water dripping off his face, his
eyes looking down into the stream.

Reason it through, he admonished himself. You have
all the answers. Dirk said you had all the answers. So
what in the hell are they?

He resisted an almost overwhelming urge to leap up
and charge off into the trees. He forced himself to stay
put. Action would have been more immediately gratify-
ing—the sense of doing something, anything, better than
just sitting around. But running about heedlessly wasn't
what the situation called for; thinking was. He had to
know what he was doing, had to understand once and for
all what had happened.

Links in a chain, Dirk had said. All his problems were
links in a chain, all locked together. Cut one, and the chain
would fall apart. Okay. He would do that. He would cut
that link. But which link should he cut?

He looked down into the waters of the stream, staring
at the rippling reflection of his image. A distorted version
of Ben Holiday's face glimmered back at him. But it was

THE BLACK UNICORN

he, not someone else, not the stranger everyone else saw.
What was it that made others see him differently? A mask,
Dirk had said—and he was disappearing into it. He stared
at himself for a long moment, then looked up again, fo-
cusing on a random gathering of wild flowers several
yards beyond, seeing them and seeing nothing.

Magic of deception, Dirk had said.

Whose magic? Whose deception?

His own, the River Master had said. The River Master
had offered to help, had tried in fact, but in the end
couldn't. The magic at work was magic of Ben's own mak-
ing, the River Master had said—and only he could act to
break its hold.

But what magic had he used?

He tried to think it through, but couldn't. Nothing
would come. He rocked back on his heels beside the little
stream, hunched down in the shadows of the mountain
glade and let his mind wander freely for a moment. It all
went back to that night in his bedchamber in Sterling Sil-
ver when Meeks had appeared before him from out of
nowhere. That was when everything had gone wrong and
he had lost the medallion. Something grated at the mem-
ory, and he grasped futilely at it. He had lost the med-
allion, he had lost his identity, he had lost his magic, he
had lost his kingdom. A chain of links that needed break-
ing, he thought. He recalled his shock at finding the med-
allion gone. He remembered his fear.

A sudden thought struck him, and a memory stirred.
The fairies had said something to him once about fear. It
had been the only time they had spoken to him, long ago
now, back when he had gone into the mists in search of
the lo Dust, back when he had first come into Landover
and been forced to fight to gain recognition for his right
to the throne—just as he was fighting now. What was it
they had said? Fear has many disguises. You must learn
to recognize them when next they come for you.

He frowned. Disguises? Masks? Not much difference

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265

between the two, he mused. He had wondered what the
words had meant. He found himself wondering again now.
At the time, he thought they had referred to his impending
encounter with the Iron Mark. But what if they had re-
ferred to what was happening to him now—to the fear he
was experiencing over the loss of the medallion?

Could the fairies have foreseen that loss so long ago?
Or was the warning simply generic, simply . . .

About the magic of this land?

Self-consciously, he reached within his tunic and
brought forth the medallion he now wore, the medallion
Meeks had given him, its face graven with the dark wiz-
ard's harsh visage. It all began here—the questions, the
mysteries, a jumble of events that had swept him away
from everything sane into this mire of fear and doubt.
How could it have happened, he wondered for at least
the hundredth time? How could he have lost the medallion
without knowing it? How had Meeks gotten the medallion
from him when only he could remove it? It didn't make
sense! Even if he had removed it, why couldn't he re-
member removing it?

Unless he hadn't!

There was a sudden, hollow feeling in the pit of his
stomach. Oh, God!

Unless he was still wearing it!

Something had nudged his thinking a step farther than
it had gone before. He could almost see the cutters work-
ing on his chains. Self-deception, Dirk had said. Magic of
his own making, the River Master had said. Damn! He
felt his breath begin to come in short, ragged gasps of
excitement; he could hear his chest pounding. It made
sense. It was the only answer that had ever made sense.
Meeks couldn't take the medallion from him unless he
removed it himself, but he couldn't remember removing
it, and the reason he couldn't remember removing it was
because he never had removed it!

Meeks had simply made him think so.

266 THE BLACK UNICORN

But how?

He tried to think it through a step at a time. His hands
were shaking with excitement, the medallion spinning in
their grip. He still wore the medallion of the High Lords
of Landover; he simply hadn't realized it. Was that pos-
sible? His mind raced ahead, exploring the possibilities,
whispering to him in a quick, urgent voice. He still wore
the medallion! Meeks had simply disguised it somehow,
made him think it wasn't the real medallion, just a sub-
stitute. That would explain why Meeks hadn't simply fin-
ished him off in his bedchamber. Meeks was afraid that
the Paladin might still appear—that the disguise was too
new, too thin perhaps. That's why the wizard had let him
go after giving him the strange warning about not taking
off the substitute medallion. He had expected Ben to
question that warning sooner or later. He had hoped Ben
would take off the medallion and throw it away, thinking
he was breaking free. Then Meeks would have had the
medallion for good!

His mind spun. The language, he thought suddenly!
How could he still communicate in the language of Land-
over if he wasn't wearing the medallion? Questor had
told him long ago that the medallion was the reason be
could understand the land's language, could write it, and
could speak it! Why hadn't he thought of that before? And
Questor—Questor had always wondered how Meeks got
the medallion back from failed candidates for the kingship
who refused to return it voluntarily. He would have done
it something like this! He would have tricked them into
taking it off, thinking they had already lost it!

My God! Could all this be possible?

He took a deep breath to steady himself. Could it be
anything else? He tacked on a negative answer immedi
ately. It was the only answer that made any sense. The
winged demon hadn't broken off the attack on the River
Master's nymphs at Elderew because of Dirk; it had flowii
off because it had seen the medallion held in Ben's hands

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267

and been frightened of its power. The demon had rec-
ognized the truth when Ben couldn't. Magic had disguised
the truth from Ben—magic Meeks had employed that
night in his bedchamber—an old magic, Ben thought sud-
denly. That was what Nightshade had said to Strabo. That
was why only the witch and the dragon could recognize
it!

But how did the magic work? What was needed to break
its spell? Was it this same magic that had changed his
identity?

The questions tumbled over one another in their efforts
to be answered. Deception—that was the key word, the
word Dirk had used repeatedly. Meeks must have used
his magic to deceive Ben into believing the medallion he
wore was another than his own. And Ben had believed
the deception to be the truth. He had let the deception
become his own. Damn! He had built his own prison!
Meeks must have caused him to dream that he had given
up the medallion, and he had convinced himself of its
truth!

In which case, shouldn't he be able simply to ...

He couldn't finish the thought. He was afraid to finish
it, afraid he might be wrong. He took another deep breath.
It didn't matter that he finish it. It mattered only that he
test it. He would have to test it to know for sure.

He stared down again into the stream, watching his face
shimmer and change with the movement of the water. His
mask, he thought—not to him, but to everyone else. He
steadied himself, then held the medallion out before him,
hands grasping the chain, the visage of Meeks dangling
and spinning slowly, reflecting the sunlight in small glim-
merings of dull silver. He slowed his breathing deliber-
ately, his heartbeat, and time itself. He focused his gaze
on the tarnished image, watching the spinning motion
slow, watching until the medallion was almost perfectly
still. He shoved the image he was seeing from his mind
and substituted in its place a picture from his memory of

THE BLACK UNICORN

the Paladin riding out from the gates of Sterling Silver
against the sunrise. He looked past the tarnish and the
wear and envisioned polished silver. He gave himself over
to his vision.

Remember, what you're seeing is all a lie, he told him-
self. Just a lie.

But nothing happened. The medallion before him con-
tinued to reflect the image of Meeks. He fought down a
renewed surge of panic and forced himself to remain calm.
Something more was needed. Something.

His mind sifted, considering and discarding possibili-
ties. He kept his eyes focused on the medallion. The
mountain forest was still about him, the silence complete
save for brief snatches of bird songs and the rustle of the
wind through the leaves. He was right about this; he knew
he was right. Break the first link, and the others would
follow. The chain would fall apart. He would become him-
self again, the power of the Paladin would return, and his
magic would be freed. He need only find a key . . .

He caught himself in midthought. Slowly his fingers
eased along the length of chain to the medallion itself.
Lightly they caressed the tarnished surface, then gathered
the talisman into his palms. Its feel was abhorrent to
him—but then Meeks would want it that way. His hands
closed. He held the medallion, gripped it tightly, felt its
surface, its graven image, and envisioned not Meeks, but
the Paladin riding out of Sterling Silver, riding out at sun-
rise, riding to him . . .

Something began to happen. The medallion grew warm
to the touch, and there was a barely perceptible change
in its feel. He gripped it harder, the image he knew to be
hidden there locked firmly in the forefront of his thoughts.
He closed his eyes. The image was a beacon of whiteness
that became his only light. The medallion burned, but he
kept his grip on it. He could sense a shifting in its surface
as if something were falling away, a skin being shed. Yes'
The burning continued, then flared sharply, spread

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269

through the whole of his body, lifted away, and dissipated
into air.

Coolness returned. Slowly he opened his eyes, then his
fingers. He looked down at the medallion that nestled in
his palm. It was bright and untarnished. He could see
himself mirrored in its surface. The image of the Paladin
glimmered back at him.

He permitted himself a huge, almost foolish smile. He
had been right after all. The medallion had been his all
along.

The chain that had bound him was broken!

•a

B'

Revelatiop

ta.

.3

Willow stirred, consciousness returning as she made the
slow, languid slide out of slumber. The sun was warm
upon her skin, and tall grasses tickled her face. She
blinked, squinted against the sudden brightness, and let
her eyes close again. She had dreamed—or had she? She
had flown on a cloud, riding wind currents that whipped
and buffeted her and bore her over all the world as if she
were a bird on wing. She blinked again, feeling the press
of the earth against her back. She had been so free.

Then the drifting sensation slipped from her, and a sud-
den return of memory jarred her completely awake. She
sat upright with a start. There had been no dream. There
had been only the reality of her flight from Meeks, the
winged demon, the others . . .

A shudder passed through her body. She forced her
eyes open again, squinting against the sunlight. She sat
within a wide clearing in a grove of hardwood trees and
scattered pines almost within the shadow of Mirwouk.
The walls of the ancient fortress loomed behind her, jag-
ged heights rough against the afternoon sky. Flowers dot-
ted the hillside which spread away below her, their smells
filling the still, humid air. The whole of the mountains
about her were strangely silent.
-270

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271

Her eyes shifted. A dozen feet away, the black unicorn
stood looking at her, the bridle of spun gold still fastened
about its slender head.

"I rode you," she whispered almost soundlessly.

The memory was a jumble of images and feelings that
washed over her like ice water and shocked her with their
intensity. She had barely known what she was doing when
she had pulled herself atop the unicorn's back, terrified
by what was happening about her, frantic to escape its
horror. Nothing was what it appeared—not Ben, not the
stranger who claimed to be Ben, not that cat, nothing.
There was fire and destruction all about—such hatred!
She had only thought to flee, and something in the touch
of the unicorn's body against her own as it had surged
past had drawn her after. Hands on the golden bridle,
fingers locking in the mane, on the sleek body, and about
the slender neck, her own face pressed close . . . The
images stirred and vanished, feelings more than pictures,
a whisper of need and want.

Her breath came in a small gasp. She had mounted the
black unicorn without thinking, and her flight—for that
indeed was what it had been—had been magical. There
had been no sense of place or time; there had been only
an acute sense of being. The unicorn had done more than
carry her away from that meadow. The unicorn had car-
ried her away from herself, down inside herself to see all
about who and what she was and might be, until the
thought of it had left her dazed and filled with wonder.
The unicorn had shown her a texture and meaning to life
that she would never have believed possible. Just its touch
had been enough; nothing more was needed. There were
tears in her eyes as she remembered how it had felt. The
images were strangely clouded now, but the emotions she
had experienced remained sharp and clear. How glorious
it had been!

She brushed at the tears and let her gaze meet that of

THE BLACK UNICORN

1-J2

the watching unicorn. It still waited on her. It did not run
as it might have, perhaps as it should. It simply waited.

But what was it waiting for? What did it want from her?

Confusion swept through her. The truth of the matter
was that she didn't know. She looked into the emerald
eyes of the black unicorn and wished the fairy creature
could tell her. She needed to know. Here it was, this won-
drous being, waiting almost resignedly while she pon-
dered, waiting on her once more—and she didn't have
any idea at all what she should do. She felt helpless and
afraid. She felt herself a fool.

But she knew she could not afford such feelings, and
she blocked them roughly from her mind. Meeks might
still hunt them—probably did. That cat, whatever it was,
would not delay the wizard long. He would come after
her, after the unicorn, after them both. Meeks wanted the
black unicorn; the stranger had been right about that. That
meant that the stranger might have been right about the
dreams as well.

And that, in turn, meant that the stranger might really
be Ben.

A twinge of desperate longing raced through her, but
she brushed it quickly aside. There was no time to con-
sider the possibility now. The black unicorn was in im-
mediate danger, and she had to do something to help it.
It was clearly waiting on her, depending on her, and ex-
pecting something from her. She had to find out what.

There was only one way. She knew it instinctively. She
would have to touch the unicorn, expose herself to its
magic. She would have to open herself to its vision.

She breathed deeply, slowly, trying to steady herself.
The sudden fear she experienced made her queasy. She
was proposing the unthinkable. No one touched a unicorn
and was ever herself again. No one. Oh, yes, she had
touched the fairy creature already—a brushing against its
body as she slipped the golden bridle in place and a cling-
ing as she rode it to safety from that meadow. But both

Terry Brooks 273

times she had been barely aware of what she was doing;

it had all been something from a brief, wondrous dream
that might never have been. What she would do now was
entirely different, willful and deliberate, and she would
be risking everything she was. The legends were uniform.
Unicorns belonged to no one but themselves. Touch one
and you were lost.

Yet she was going to do it anyway. The decision had
already been made. The black unicorn was more than a
legend out of tales a thousand years old, more than the
dream that had drawn her on, more even than the reality
of its physical being. It was an inescapable want that was
an integral and undeniable part of her, a mystery that she
must solve. The emerald eyes of the creature reflected
her most secret urgings. She could keep nothing of herself
hidden. Her own body betrayed her, its need for the un-
icorn an irresistible force. There was desire in her that
surpassed anything she had ever known. The dangers that
the black unicorn might pose, imagined or real, paled be-
side such desire. She had to solve its puzzle, whatever
the cost. She had to know its truth.

She went hot and cold and she felt feather light as she
rose and started forward. She was trembling, the horror
and the anticipation mixing within her in equal measures,
driving her reason from her, and leaving only her need.

Oh, Ben, she thought desperately! Why aren't you
here?

The black unicorn waited patiently, an ebony statue in
the dappled shadows, eyes locked on Willow's. There was
a curious sense of its both not and always being mirrored
in the sylph—as if it were her most carefully guarded
wish, projected into being from her mind.

"I have to know," she whispered to the unicorn as she
stood at last before it.

Slowly, her hands came up.

The meadow, once grassy and bright with wild flowers,

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274

lay in ruins, a charred, smoking stretch of barren earth
amid the forest trees. Questor Thews stood at its edge
and peered futilely through the haze. He was covered with
dust and ash, his tall, stooped figure more ragtag in ap-
pearance than ever, gray robes and colored silks singed
and torn, harlequin leather boots scuffed and smudged.
That last exchange of magic between Meeks, the demon,
and Edgewood Dirk had sent him flying. The wind had
been knocked from him, and he'd found himself resting
rather precariously in the branches of an aged crimson
maple, an object of great delight for the squirrels and birds
nesting there. Abemathy, the kobolds, and the gnomes
were nowhere to be seen. Ben Holiday, Willow, and the
black unicorn had disappeared. Questor had climbed
down from that maple and gone searching for them all.
He hadn't found a one.

Now his wanderings had brought him back to where he
had last seen any of them. And none of them appeared
to be here either.

He sighed deeply, his owlish face lined with worry. He
wished he knew more of what was going on. He accepted
now that the stranger who claimed to be Ben Holiday was
in fact who he said he was; the man/who appeared to be
Ben Holiday was in fact Meeks. The dreams Willow, Ben,
and he had experienced had been, in fact, the creations
of his half-brother, all part of some bigger plan to gain
control over Landover and the magic. But acceptance of
all this gained him nothing. He still didn't know what the
black unicorn had to do with anything nor did he under-
stand yet what plan Meeks was trying to implement.
Worst of all, he didn't have any idea at all how to find
any of this out.

He rubbed his bearded chin and sighed again. There
had to be a way, of course. He just had to figure it out.

"Hmmmmm," he mused thoughtfully. But his thinking
produced nothing.

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275

He shrugged. Well, there was nothing more to be ac-
complished by standing about.

He started to turn away and found himself face to face
with Meeks. His half-brother had reverted to his normal
form, a tall, craggy figure with grizzled white hair and
hard, dead eyes. Dark blue robes cloaked his body like a
shroud. He stood less than a dozen yards away, just a
step or two back in the trees from the clearing's edge.
The black-gloved hand of his one good arm cradled the
missing books of magic close against his chest.

Questor Thews felt his stomach lurch.

"I have waited a long time for this moment," Meeks
whispered. "I have been very patient."

Dozens of random thoughts rushed through Questor's
mind and were gone, leaving only one. "I am not fright-
ened of you," he said quietly.

His half-brother's face was unreadable. "You should
be, Questor. You think yourself a wizard now, but you
are an apprentice still. You will never be more than that.
I have power you never even dreamed could exist! I have
the means to do anything!"

"Except catch the black unicorn, it appears," Questor
answered bravely.

The dead eyes flickered briefly with rage. "You un-
derstand nothing—not you, not Holiday, not anyone. You
play a game you cannot win and you play it poorly. You
are a distraction to be removed." The pale, creased face
was a death mask. "I have endured exile and a disruption
of my plans—all brought about by you and this play-
King—and neither of you understands yet what it is that
you have done. You are pathetic!"

The dark robes seemed to twitch where the right sleeve
hung empty. "Your time in this world and life is just about
over, half-brother. You stand alone. That prism cat no
longer threatens me. Holiday is helpless and abandoned.
The sylph and the black unicorn have nowhere left to run.

THE BLACK UNICORN

Your other friends are already mine—all but the dog, and
the dog is of no consequence."

Questorfelt his heart sink. The others were prisoners—
all but Abemathy?

Meeks smiled now, a cold, empty smile. "You were
the last possible threat to me, Questor. And now I have

you."

Questor stiffened, anger pushing back his fear. "You
do not have me yet! Nor will you ever have me!"

The other's laugh was soundless. "Won't I?"

His head inclined slightly, and dozens of shadows
slipped from behind the trees all about him. The shadows
materialized with the light into small, crooked children
with pointed ears, wizened faces, and scaled bodies. Pig
snouts sniffed the forest air and serpent tongues slipped
between rows of sharpened teeth.

"Demon imps!" Questor exclaimed softly.

"Rather a few too many for you to do much about,
wouldn't you say?" His half-brother's words hissed at
him with undisguised pleasure. "I don't care to waste my
time with you, Questor. I prefer to leave you to them."

The demon imps had completely surrounded Questor,
eyes bright and anxious, tongues licking their snouts.
Meeks was right. There were too many. Nevertheless, he
held his ground. There was no point in trying to run. His
only chance was to catch them off guard . . .

They had closed to within half-a-dozen yards, a tight
circle of ugly little faces and sharp teeth, when Questor
whirled about, hands pinwheeling, and sent them all flying
with a burst of magic. Smoke and steam geysered from
out of nowhere, flinging them away, and Questor was lop-
ing desperately back into the concealing shadows of the
forest, leaping over the squirming, momentarily blinded
demon imps as if they were mud puddles. Squeals of rage
chased after him. The demon imps were up and skittering
in pursuit almost instantly. He whirled to face them.
Again he sent an explosion of magic into their midst, and

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277

again they were scattered. But there were so many! They
came at him from everywhere, cluttering and squealing,
grasping at his robes. He tried to defend himself, but it
was too late. They were all over him, pulling at him, pin-
ning his arms to his body. He swayed with the weight of
them and toppled over.

Clawed hands fastened to his clothing, then to his
throat. He began to choke, unable to breathe. He strug-
gled valiantly, but there were dozens holding him down.
Flashes of light danced before his eyes.

He had just a momentary glimpse through the tangle of
demon imps of a smiling Meeks standing over him before
he blacked out.

Willow's hands were inches from the black unicorn's del-
icate ebony head when she heard a faint rustling of leaves
and brush, the sound of someone approaching through the
trees. She drew back quickly from the unicorn, startled,
wary.

A moment later, a shaggy head pushed out from the
foliage and peered about intently through eyeglasses
knocked partially askew by a veil of interlocking pine
boughs.

It was Abemathy.

"Willow, is that you?" the scribe asked in disbelief.

He shoved past the remaining branches and stepped
into the clearing. His dress clothes were in shreds, the
greater part of his tunic torn from his body. His boots
were gone completely. His fur was singed and his face
looked as if it had been shoved into an ash pit. He was
panting heavily, and his tongue licked out at his black
nose.

"I have had better days, I want you to know," he de-
clared. "I may have had worse, but I cannot remember
when. First, I traipse all over creation in search of you
and this . . . this animal for heaven knows what reason,
because I surely do not, then we find, not just you and

278                  THE BLACK UNICOKN

it, but Meeks and his demon as well, then the cat appears
and there is a pointless exchange of magic that seems to
do little more than fire up a whole section of the forest,
and finally we are all scattered to the four winds and no
one can find anyone!"

He gulped a chestful of air, gave out a long sigh and
glanced about. "Have you seen any of the others?"

Willow shook her head, distracted. "No, none of
them." Her thoughts were of the unicorn, of the need that
consumed her, of her desire to reach out and touch . . .

"What are you doing here?" Abernathy asked sud-
denly, thesound of his voice startling her. The scribe saw
her consternation. "Is something wrong, Willow? What
are you doing with the unicorn? You know how dangerou s
that creature is. Come away, now. Come over and let me
look at you. The High Lord would want..."

"Have you seen him?" she demanded sharply, the
mention of Ben a lifeline for which she quickly grasped
"Is he close?"

Abernathy shoved his glasses further up his nose. "No,
Willow—I haven't seen him. He was lost with the rest of
us." He paused. "Are you all right?"

The lifeline disappeared. She nodded without speaking.
She felt the heat of the afternoon sun, the swelter of the
day, and the closeness of the air. She was in a prison that
threatened to bury her. The sounds of birds and insects
faded into silence, the presence of Abernathy lost mean-
ing, and her desire for the black unicorn consumed her
anew. She turned from the scribe and began to reach again
for the beast.

"Wait!" Abernathy fairly shouted. "What are you
doing, girl? Do not touch that creature! Don't you realize
what will happen to you?"

"Stay away from me, Abernathy," she replied softly,
but hesitated nevertheless.

"Are you as mad as the rest of them?" the dog snapped
angrily. "Has everyone gone crazy? Doesn't anyone but

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279

me understand what is happening? The dreams are a lie,
Willow! Meeks brought us to this place, tricked us into
serving his interests, and made fools of us all! That uni-
corn is probably something that belongs to him! You can-
not know what its purpose might be! Do not touch it!"

She glanced quickly back at the dog. "I have to. I need
to."

Abernathy started forward, saw the look of warning in
the sylph's green eyes, and quickly stopped. "Willow, do
not do this! You know the stories, the legends!" His voice
dropped to a whisper. "You will be lost, girl!"

She stared silently at him for a long moment, then
smiled. "But that is exactly the point, Abernathy. I am
already lost."

Her hands came up swiftly and fastened about the neck
of the black unicorn.

It was as if a cold fire swept through her. The fire
burned from her hands into her arms and down her body.
She stiffened against its feel and shuddered heavily. She
threw back her head and gasped for breath. She heard
Abernathy call out frantically from behind her and then
lost track of him. He was there, but no longer visible to
her. She could see nothing now but the face of the unicorn
before her, a disembodied shape against a backdrop of
space. The fire consumed her, mingled with her desire,
and turned it into unrestrained passion. She was losing
control of herself, beginning to come apart. A moment
longer, and she would cease to be herself entirely.

She tried to remove her hands from the fairy creature's
neck and found she could not. She was joined to the uni-
corn. She was one with it.

Then the ridged hom began to glow white with magic,
and a jumble of images ripped through her mind. There
was a place of empty coldness. There were chains and
fire, tapestries of white on which unicorns bounded and
leaped, dark-robed wizards, and spells being cast in end-
less succession. There was Meeks, Ben, and the Paladin.

THE BLACK UNICORN

280

And finally there was a cry of such terror and longing
that it shattered the images as if they had been formed of
glass.

Set me free!

The pain of that cry was too much for her to bear. She
screamed, and her scream jerked her sharply backward,
tearing her free at last of the unicorn. She stumbled and
almost fell—would have fallen, had not Abemathy's arms
come quickly about her to hold her upright.

"I saw!" she gasped and could speak no more.

But the sound of her scream still echoed through the
trees.

B'

•B

Coipbat

•a

The scream reached Ben Holiday as he knelt alone in the
forest beside the tiny stream, restored to himself at last,
the medallion ofLandover's High Lords a brilliant silver
wonder cradled gingerly, unbelievingly within the cup of
his hands. The scream rose out of the trees, a thin, high
wail of anguish and fear, and lingered like the whistle of
the wind through canyon drops in the still mountain air.

Ben's head jerked up, his neck craning. There was no
mistaking that cry. It was Willow's.

He leaped to his feet, hands closing possessively over
the medallion, eyes searching the forest shadows as if
whatever threatened the sylph might be waiting there for
him as well. A mix of fear and horror raced through him.
What had been done to Willow? He started forward,
stopped, whirled about desperately, and realized that he
could not trace the direction of the scream. It seemed to
come from everywhere at once. Damn! Meeks would hear
that scream as surely as he—Meeks and that winged
demon. Perhaps Meeks already had . . .

He was holding the medallion so tightly that it was cut-
ting into his palms. Willow! A vision of the sylph blos-
somed in his mind, a frail and beautiful creature whose
life was his special charge. He recalled again the words
281

THE BLACK UNICORN

282

of the Earth Mother investing him with responsibility for
seeing that she stayed safe and his promise to keep her
so. His emotions tore at him and left him ragged and fran-
tic. Truths to which he had not yet given heed flayed his
soul.

The truths all reduced to one.

He loved Willow.

He experienced a warm rush of surprise and frantic
relief. All this time he had denied his feelings, unable to
come to terms with them. He had wanted no one close
to him again, not after Annie, his dead wife. Love brought
responsibility and the possibility of hurt and loss. He had
wanted none of it. But the feelings had remained—as such
feelings do—because they had never been his to deny in
the first place. The reality of their existence had been
forced upon him that first night out in the eastern wastes
after fleeing Strabo and Nightshade—revealed in a dream
in his dialogue with Edgewood Dirk on the reason for the
urgency of his hunt for Willow.

Why do you run so? Why must you hurry so? Why mu^
you find Willow? Dirk had asked.

Because I love her, he had answered.

And so he did—but had not allowed himself until this
moment to think on it, to reason on it, and to consider
what it meant.

Seconds was all it took to do so now. The thoughts,
the reasonings, and the considerations all passed through
his mind in a smattering of time that was barely meas-
urable. It was as if everything that had taken so long to
reach resolution was compressed down into a single
instant.

But that instant was enough.

Ben never hesitated. There was a time when he would
have, a time that now seemed a thousand years gone. He
released the medallion with its silver-engraved image and
let it fall against his chest, the sunlight sending shards of
brightness into the dappled forest.

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283

He called the Paladin to him.

Light flared and brightened at the edge of the little
glade, chasing the shadows and gloom. Ben's head lifted
in recognition, and there was excitement in his eyes. He
had thought never to do this again, wished it in fact,
prayed it might never be necessary. Now he was anxious
for it. A part of him was already beginning to break away.

The Paladin appeared out of the light. His white charger
stamped and snorted. His silver armor glittered, its har-
ness and traces creaking. His weapons hung ready. The
ghost of another age and life was returned.

Ben felt the medallion begin to bum against his chest,
ice and fire first, then something else altogether. He felt
himself separating, drawing out of his own body.

Willow! he heard himself scream her name once in the
silence of his mind.

It was his last thought. A flare of silver light burst from
the medallion and streaked across the glade to where the
Paladin waited. He felt himself carried with it to merge
with the body of the King's knight-errant. Armor clamped
all about, fastening and tightening, closing down. An iron
shell encased him, and the memory of who and what he
had been was gone. The Paladin's memory became his,
a rush of images and thoughts that spanned a thousand
other times and places, a thousand other lives—all of a
warrior whose battle skills had never been surpassed, a
champion who had never been defeated.

Ben Holiday disappeared. He had become the Paladin.

He was aware momentarily of the ragged figure that
stood statuelike at the edge of the little stream, bearded
and unkempt, a worn and battered shell. He knew it to
be Landover's King and dismissed the matter.

Wheeling his white charger about, he surged through
the brush and scrub into the forest trees and was gone.

Willow's scream brought Meeks almost instantly. He ap-
peared from the shadow of Mirwouk's crumbling walls

284 THE BLACK UNICORN

astride his winged demon, dark robes flying against the
sunlit afternoon skies. The demon plummeted to the hill
side with a hiss, settling heavily within a gathering of pines
at its far edge. Its leathered wings folded in against its
wolf-serpent body, and its nostrils flared with small bursts
of fire. Steam rose off its back.

Meeks slid slowly down the sealed neck, hard eyes
fixed on the black unicorn as it stamped and snorted fran-
tically some fifty feet away. He cradled in the grasp of
his good arm the missing books of magic.

Abemathy pulled a still-shaken Willow protectively be-
hind him. "Stay back from us, wizard!" he ordered
bravely.

Meeks ignored him. His eyes were on the unicorn. He
came forward a few steps, glanced briefly at Willow and
Abemathy, looked again at the unicorn, and then stopped.
He seemed to be waiting for something. The unicorn
danced and shuddered as if already caught, but still it did
not flee.

"Willow, what is happening here?" Abemathy growled
urgently.

The sylph could barely stand. She shook her head
woozily, her words nearly inaudible. "I saw," she re-
peated. "The images, the whole . . . of it. But there are
... so many, I cannot. . ."

She was making no sense at all, still in shock, it ap-
peared. Abemathy helped her over to a patch of flowered
grass and sat her gently down. Then he turned back to
Meeks.

"She cannot hurt you, wizard!" he called out, drawing
the hard eyes instantly. "Why not let her go? The unicorn
is yours if you wish it, although I cannot imagine why you
would. Heaven knows, it has been a thing of misfortune
for all who have encountered it!"

Meeks kept looking at him, but said nothing.

"The others will be here in moments, wizard!" Ab-
ernathy declared. "You had best hurry away!"

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285

Meeks smiled coldly. "Come over to me a moment,
scribe," he invited softly. "Perhaps we can discuss it."

Abemathy hesitated, glanced briefly back at Willow,
took a deep breath, and started across the clearing. He
was so frightened that he could barely make himself
move. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was
walk over there to the wizard and his pet demon, and yet
here he was doing just exactly that. He straightened him-
self bravely, determined to see this thing through. He
really hadn't any choice in the matter. He had to do some-
thing to help the girl, and this appeared to be the only
option open to him. The day was warm and still; it was
a wonderful day for just about anything other than this.
Abemathy moved as slowly as he could and prayed that
the others would arrive before he was turned into the wiz-
ard's latest burnt offering.

When he was a dozen paces from Meeks, he stopped.
The wizard's craggy face was a mask of cunning and false
warmth. "Closer, please," Meeks whispered.

Abernathy knew then that he was doomed. There
wasn't going to be any escape for him. He might be able
to delay matters for a few moments, but that would be
all. Still, even a few moments might help Willow.

He came forward half-a-dozen paces and stopped
again. "What shall we discuss?" he demanded.

The cold smile was gone. "Why not the possibility that
your friends will be here to help you in the next few
moments?"

He gestured briefly with the books, and a ring of twisted
little figures appeared from out of the trees surrounding
the clearing. The figures were everywhere, encircling
them. Ugly, piggish faces with sharp teeth and serpents'
tongues snorted and squealed anxiously in the silence.
Abernathy felt the hair on the back of his spine arch. A
dozen of the little monsters pushed Questor Thews, Bun-
ion, Parsnip, and the G'home Gnomes from out of the
trees. All were gagged and securely bound in chains.

286 THE BLACK UNICORI\

Meeks turned. The smile was back. "It appears that
your friends will not be much help to you after all. But ir
was good of you to wait until they could join us."

Abernathy saw his last, faint hope of being rescued
disappear.

"Run, Willow!" he shouted.

Then, growling savagely, he launched himself at
Meeks. He did it with the somewhat vague notion of
catching the wizard off-guard and knocking free those pre-
cious books of magic. He almost got away with it. Meeks
was so busy orchestrating the arrival of his small army ol
minions that it never occurred to him the dog might decide
to fight back. Abernathy was on top of him almost before
he realized what was happening. But the magic Meeks
commanded was as quick as thought, and he called it to
his use instantly. Green fire surged up from the books of
magic, and a screen of flame hammered into Abemathy.
The soft-coated Wheaten Terrier tumbled backward head-
over-heels and lay still, smoke rising lazily from his singed
fur. The screen of fire protecting Meeks and the books of
magic flared and died.

The wizard stared back across the clearing to where
Willow sat slumped upon the ground and the black uni-
corn waited.

"At last," he whispered, his voice a slow hiss.

He beckoned curtly to the waiting demon imps and the
ring began to tighten.

Silence descended across the little clearing—almost as if
nature had put a finger to her lips and said "hush" to the
world. There was a moment of time in which everything
slowed. Meeks waited impatiently as the circle of demon
imps crept forward. His winged demon snorted, nostrils
steaming. Willow sat with her head bent, still stunned,
her long hair cascading down about her like a veil. The
black unicorn moved close, a step at a time only, a shadow
out of darkness woefully lost in daylight. Its muzzle

Terry Brooks 287

drooped and brushed the sylph's arm gently. The white
magic of its horn had gone dark.

Then a sudden rush of wind broke over the mountain
heights and whistled through the trees. The unicorn's
head jerked up, its ears perked forward, and its horn flared
brighter than the sun. It heard the sounds that no one else
could—sounds for which it had listened for centuries.

Trees, brush, and scrub exploded from the wall of the
forest at its northern edge as if torn free by some massive
fist. Wind howled through the opening left, and light burst
free in a brilliant white flash. Meeks and his winged demon
shrank back instinctively, and the demon imps threw
themselves down upon the earth squealing.

A rumble of thunder turned to a pounding of hooves,
and the Paladin rode out from his twilight existence into
battle.

Meeks gave a howl of rage and disbelief. His demon
imps were already scattering to the four winds, terror
sweeping them away as if they were dried leaves at the
end of a broom. The demon imps wanted no part of the
Paladin. Meeks turned, the books of magic clutched
tightly to his dark robes by the leather-gloved hand. He
shrieked something unintelligible to the monster behind
him, and the creature surged forward, hissing.

The Paladin swerved slightly, white charger barely
slowing as it turned to meet the demon.

Fire burst from the demon's maw, engulfing the ap-
proaching horse and rider. But the Paladin broke through
the wall of flames and came on, a battle lance lowered
into place. The demon breathed its fire once more, and
again the flames washed over the knight-errant. Willow's
head lifted, and she saw the silver knight and horse dis-
appear in the fire. Sudden realization rushed through her.
If the Paladin was here, so was Ben!

Rames pyramided off the clearing's grasses and
scorched the sheltering trees. Everything wilted momen-
tarily in a white-hot heat. But then the Paladin was clear

THE BLACK UNICORN

of the flames once more, his charger and armor covered
with ash and smoking. He was almost on top of the demon
now, battle lance set. Too late the demon realized the
danger as it spread its wings and tried to lift itself skyward.
The Paladin's lance ripped through scales and armored
plates and pierced its massive chest. The wolf-serpent
screamed and surged back, the battle lance breaking off
within it. It tried to rise, a weak, fluttering effort it could
not manage. Then its heart gave out, and it fell earthward.
It crashed into the scorched grasses, shuddered, and lay
still.

The Paladin broke off the attack while the demon wa,s
in its death throes, swerving to stay clear of the struggling
monster. Then he wheeled back again, drew forth the
great broadsword, and spurred his white charger towaid
Meeks to finish the fight.

But this time Meeks was ready for him.

The hard, craggy old face tightened down in concen-
tration, the wizard's thin lips drawing back until his teeth
showed. Whatever magic he yet commanded, he was call-
ing on it now.

Wicked green light flared at a point midway between
the approaching knight-errant and the waiting wizard.
Meeks cried out and stiffened. His head shot back and
the green light exploded in shards.

From out of the fire appeared a line of armored skel-
etons atop fleshless steeds, half goat, half snake. Willow
counted. Three, four, five—there were six altogether.
The skeletons held broadswords and maces in their glove-
less, bony hands. Helmetless death's-heads smiled in fro-
zen grimace. Riders and carriers both were as black as
night.

They turned as one and came at the Paladin in a rush.
The Paladin rode to meet them.

Willow watched the battle unfold from close beside the
black unicorn. Her senses had returned to her now; her

Terry Brooks 289

thoughts were clear. She saw the Paladin and the black
riders come together in a clash of iron, saw the dust swirl
up from the impact, and saw one of the black riders go
down in a pile of shattered bones. The fighters wheeled
and struck at each other, and the sounds were terrifying.
She shrank from the conflict, her thoughts focused not on
the Paladin, but on Ben. Where was he? Why wasn't he
here? Why wasn't Landover's High Lord close to his
champion?

Another black rider went down, the bones of its skel-
eton body snapping apart, crunching like deadwood be-
neath the hooves of the Paladin's horse. The Paladin
broke away, whirled and struck down a third rider, the
great broadsword flashing silver light as it swung through
its deadly arc. The remaining riders converged, weapons
hammering at him, clanging and sparking off his armor,
thrusting him back.

Willow pushed to her knees. The Paladin was in danger
of being forced down.

Then small bursts of green fire flared over the bones
of the three black riders that had fallen, and six new skel-
etons rose out of the smoky haze to join their fellows.
Willow felt her stomach tighten with cold. They had dou-
bled their strength. There were too many now for the
Paladin.

She lurched to her feet, determination giving her
strength. Questor, the kobolds, and the gnomes were still
bound and helpless. Abemathy was still unconscious.
Meeks had disabled them all. There was no one left to
help the Paladin but her.

No other left to help Ben.

She knew what she must do. The black unicorn stood
quietly next to her, emerald green eyes fixed on her own.
There was intelligence there that was unmistakable. She
could read in those eyes what she must do, and it mirrored
what she already knew in her heart.

290 THE BLACK UNICORN

She took a deep breath, stretched out her arms, and
embraced the unicorn once more.

The magic rushed through her instantly, quick and anx
ious. The unicorn's delicate body shuddered with release.
and the images began. They surged into the watershed ol
the sylph's mind, jumbling together. Willow jerked back
from their intensity, wanted to scream, and fought back
against the urge. Her need was less this time, her desire
more manageable. She struggled to master it. The images
slowed then, straightened into an orderly succession, and
came on anew. The mix of pain and anguish that had ac-
companied them lessened, and their brightness dimmed
into something bearable.

She began to recognize what she was seeing. Her fin-
gers caressed the silky, delicate neck of the unicorn as
the magic joined them.

A voice cried out.

Fairy-kind! Set me free!

The voice belonged to the unicorn and to nothing.
Something of the unicorn was real; something else was
not. The images appeared and faded in Willow's mind.
and she watched them pass. The black unicorn sought
freedom. It had come in search of that freedom. It be-
lieved it would find it through. . . why? . . . through Ben!
The High Lord could set it free because the High Lord
commanded the magic of the Paladin, and only the Paladin
was strong enough to counteract the magic that bound it,
the magic that Meeks wielded—but then there was no
High Lord to be found and the unicorn had been left alone
in this land, searching, and Willow had come instead,
searching too, bearing the golden bridle the wizards had
made to snare it when it first broke free long ago. The
unicorn was frightened of Willow and the bridle, uncertain
of her purpose, and it fled from her until it realized that
she was good, that she could help, and that she could take
it to the High Lord and set it free. Willow would know

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291

the High Lord even in his disguise, when the High Lord
himself did not know . . .

The images came quicker now, and Willow fought again
to slow them so their meaning would not be lost. Her
breath came quickly, as if she had run a great distance,
and there was a bright sheen of sweat on her face.

The voice cried out in her mind again.

The High Lord's power was lost to him and therefore
lost to me! I could not be set free!

The voice was almost frantic. The images whispered
urgently. The dreams that had brought Willow in search
of it were a mix of truth and lies, dreams from both wizard
and fairies . , . Fairies! Her dreams were sent by the fair-
ies? ... All must come together so that truths could be
revealed and the power needed could be summoned—so
that Paladin and wizard could meet and the stronger pre-
vail, the stronger that was also the good, and then the
books of magic could be, finally and forever, could be and
must be ...

Something intruded, other images, other thoughts im-
prisoned within the black unicorn for countless centuries.
Willow stiffened and her arms locked about the sleek
neck. She felt the scream rising within her once more,
uncontrollable this time, madness! She saw something
new in the images. The black unicorn was not a single
life, but many! Oh, Ben! she cried soundlessly. There
were lives in the images that struggled and could not break
free, that yearned for things she could not understand in
worlds she could not imagine. She shook with the emo-
tions that ripped through her. Souls imprisoned, lives held
fast, magics torn away and used wrongly—Ben!

Then there was a sudden image of the missing books
of magic, locked within a dark, secret place, a place filled
with the smell of something evil. There was an image
of fire burning outward from one of those books, bum-
ing with the intensity of life being born anew, and from
out of that fire and that book leaped the black unicorn,

THE BLACK UNICORN

2<)2

free once more, racing from the dark into the light.
searching . . .

The voice cried out one final time.

Destroy the books!

The cry was one of desperation. The cry was almost a
shriek. It blocked away the images; it consumed every-
thing with its urgency: The pain it released was
intolerable.

Willow's scream finally broke free, rising up against
the sounds of battle. The sylph tore away from the black
unicorn and stumbled back, almost blacking out with the
intensity of what she had experienced. She dropped to
her knees, head bent against a wave of nausea and cold.
She thought she must die and knew in the same instant
she would not. She could sense the black unicorn shud-
dering uncontrollably beside her.

The words of that final cry were a whisper on her lips.

Destroy the books!

She rose to a half-crouch and screamed them out across
the battleground of the little clearing.

The words were like tiny wafers of paper caught in a wind-
storm. The Paladin did not hear them, consumed by the
fury of the battle he fought. Meeks did not hear them,
the whole of his concentration given over to directing
the magic he had called upon to save himself. Questor
Thews, Bunion, Parsnip, Fillip, and Sot, abandoned by
their demon imp captors, were lying bound and gagged
at the clearing's far edge.

Only Abemathy heard.

The dog was semiconscious, and the words seemed to
come to him from somewhere out of the darkness of his
own thoughts. He blinked hazily, heard the words echo
heard then the sounds of the frightening conflict taking
place about him, and forced his eyes all the way open.

The Paladin and the black riders whirled and struck out
at each other at the clearing's center, a kaleidoscope of

Terry Brooks

293

movement and sound. Willow and the black unicorn were
small, trapped figures at the clearing's far end. He could
see nothing of his other friends.

He panted, his tongue licking out at his nose, and he
felt dull, aching pain working its way through his battered
body. He remembered what had been done to him and
where he was.

Slowly, he twisted himself about so that he could see
better. Meeks stood almost next to him. Caught up in the
battle between the Paladin and the black riders, the wizard
had come forward the half-dozen paces that had separated
him from the dog.

The words whispered once more in Abemathy's mind.
Destroy the books!

The dog tried to get to his feet and found his body would
not respond. He sank back. Other thoughts intruded. De-
stroy the books? Destroy his one chance of ever becoming
human again? How could he even consider such a thing?

Another black rider went down, and there was the
sound of breaking bones. The Paladin was hemmed in on
all sides, armor blackened by ash and rent by sword and
axe. He was losing the battle.

Abemathy knew what it would mean for all of them if
he did and quit thinking about his own problems. He tried
to rise again and found now that he could—but not all the
way. His muzzle drew back in a grimace of frustration.

Then Meeks shifted his feet one further time, and sud-
denly his leg was inches from Abemathy's head. The wiz-
ard wore soft shoes; the leg was exposed. Abemathy's
grimace turned to a snarl. He had just been given one last
chance.

He launched himself headfirst at Meeks, his jaws closed
over the wizard's ankle, and he bit down hard. Meeks
gave out a shriek of mingled pain and astonishment, his
hands flew out, and the books of magic flew up.

Everything happened at once after that. There was a
streak of black light that shot across the clearing, past the

THE BLACK UNICORN

294

Paladin and the skeleton riders, past the clouds of dust
and bursts of green fire. The black unicorn sped quicker
than thought. Meeks jerked his leg frantically, trying to
free himself from Abemathy's jaws, groping at the same
time for the airborne books. Abemathy would not let go.
Willow cried out, and Abemathy bit down harder. Then
the black unicorn had reached them. It leaped into the
air, its horn flaring white with the magic, speared the tum-
bling books, shattered their bindings like glass, and scat-
tered their pages everywhere.

Down fluttered the loose pages, those with the draw-
ings of the unicorns mingling with those whose centers
were charred from that inner fire. Meeks screamed and
yanked free at last of Abemathy's jaws. Green fire burst
from his outstretched hands and hammered into the un-
icorn as it soared, knocking it askew. The unicorn twisted
in midair, and white fire arced from its ridged horn into
the wizard. Back flew Meeks. Green fire exploded into
the unicorn, and white fire hammered into Meeks. The
fires raced back and forth between unicorn and wizard,
the level of intensity rising with each new burst.

The Paladin whirled swiftly at the clearing's center,
broadsword arcing in a circle that cut apart the remaining
black riders and scattered their bones. It was a perfunc-
tory task now; the black riders were already disintegrat-
ing. The magic that had sustained them had gone out of
their hollow forms. They crumbled instantly and were
gone.

Then the Paladin was racing toward the unicorn and
the wizard. But the Paladin could not reach them in time.
The fire had engulfed Meeks, the magic too strong even
for him. He shrieked one final time and exploded into
smoke. The black unicorn was engulfed in the same mo-
ment, the fire all about. Stricken, it arched skyward,
leaped into the air and was gone.

The Paladin, too, disappeared. It rode into a sudden
burst of white light, the light washing away ash and dust

Terry Brooks

295

and healing silver armor until it shone like new—all in an
instant's time—and knight-errant and light simply faded
away.

Abernathy and Willow stared at each other voicelessly
across the charred, empty forest clearing.

Then it happened.

They all saw it—Willow and Abernathy as they
crouched upon the scorched hillside, still stunned from
the fury of the battle just completed; Questor, the ko-
bolds, and the G'home Gnomes as they struggled futilely
to sit upright, still secured by the bonds that the demon
imps had used to restrain them; and even Ben Holiday as
he stumbled breathlessly from the forest trees after having
run all the way from the place of his transformation, not
knowing what had brought him, knowing only that he
must come. They saw it, and they held their collective
breath in wonder.

It began as a wind that disturbed the mountain stillness,
just a whisper at first, then a rush of sound like the roar
of an ocean. The wind sprang up from the earth upon
which the pages of the broken books of magic now lay,
stirring dust and ash, whipping at the few tiny shards of
green flame that still flickered in the meadow grasses. It
lifted skyward in the shape of a funnel, catching up those
scattered pages in a snowstorm of white. The pages that
were burned became suddenly healed, their ragged edges
closing, their yellowed surfaces turning pristine white
once more. The pages that were filled with the drawings
of the unicorns mixed and joined with them until none
was distinguishable from the others. A wall of pages rose
up across the skyline, crackling and snapping madly as
the wind whipped them through the air.

Then the pages began to change. The drawings began
to shimmer and flex, and abruptly the unicorns came
alive. No longer frozen in still life, they began to race
about the funnel's edge. There were hundreds of them,

THE BLACK UNICORN

296

all white, all in motion, a blur of power and speed. The
pages and bindings of the books of magic were gone now;

there were only the unicorns. They flew through the air
and cried out in ecstasy against the roar of the wind.

Free they seemed to be saying! Free!

Then the runnel broke apart and the unicorns scattered,
flooding the skies above the mountain clearing in a rush
of graceful, delicate bodies—like fireworks exploding in
an impossibly beautiful shower. The unicorns spread out
across the skyline—buoyed by the magic of their trans-
formation—then soared into the distance. Their cries lin-
gered after them momentarily, then faded into silence.

The mountains had gone still again.

B"

•B

B.

•B

"There never was any black unicorn," Willow said.

"There was, but it was only a deception," Ben said.

Questor Thews and Abemathy, Bunion and Parsnip,
and Fillip and Sot looked at each other in confusion.

They sat within the shade of a great, old oak at the edge
of the meadow clearing, the lingering smell of scorched
earth a pungent reminder of all that had befallen. The last
of the shards of green flame had flickered out, but trailers
of smoke and particles of dust and ash still floated weight-
less through the sun-streaked afternoon air. Abernathy
had been dusted off, the others had been freed of their
bonds, and the Six of them were gathered about Ben and
Willow, who were trying to explain what had happened.
It wasn't easy because neither of them knew everything
yet, so they were piecing the story together as they went.

"It might be easier if we start at the beginning," Ben
offered.

He hunched forward, legs crossing before him. He was
ragged and dirty, but at least they all recognized him now.
Removing his own deception of who and what he was had
removed theirs as well.

"A long time ago, the fairies sent the white unicorns
into Landover on a journey to certain of the mortal

297

298 THE BLACK UNICORN

worlds. We know that much from the histories. The uni-
corns were the most recognizable magic the fairies pos-
sessed, and they sent them to those worlds where belief
in the magic was in danger of failing altogether. After all,
there has to be some belief in the magic—however
small—for any world to survive.

"But the unicorns disappeared. They disappeared be-
cause the wizards of Landover waylaid and imprisoned
them. They wanted the unicorns' magic for their own use.
Remember, Questor, when you told me that the wizards
were once a powerful guild that hired out—back before
the King sent the Paladin to dispose of them? Well, I'm
betting a major part of that magic came from the impris-
oned unicorns—magic that the wizards siphoned off. I
don't know what magic they possessed to trap the uni-
corns in the first place—a deception of some sort, I'd
guess. That seems to be their favorite trick. At any rate,
they caught them up, changed them into drawings, and
trapped them in those books."

"But not whole," Willow said.

"No, not whole," Ben agreed. "This is where it gets
interesting. The wizards separated the body from the
spirit of each unicorn in making the transformation. They
imprisoned the body in one book and the spirit in the
other! That weakened the unicorns and made them easier
to hold. The body without the spirit is never as strong.
The wizards' magic was potent enough to imprison each
separately; the trick was to prevent them from joining
again."

"Which was the danger Meeks faced when the black
unicorn escaped," Willow added.

"Right. Because the black unicorn was the collective
spirit of the imprisoned white unicorns!" Ben furrowed
his brow. "You see, so long as the wizards could maintain
the strength of the magic that bound the books, the uni-
corns could not break free and the wizards could drain
the unicorns' magic as well and put it to their own use.

Terry Brooks

299

Even after Landover's King sent the Paladin to crush the
wizards' guild years ago, the books survived. They were
probably kept hidden for a time. Even later, the wizards
still remaining, those now in service to the King, were
careful not to let anyone know the real source of their
power. And the books were passed down from wizard to
wizard until at last they came to Meeks."

He touched his index finger to his lips. "But—in the
meantime—there was a problem with the unicorns. Every
so often, they escaped. Something would happen, the wiz-
ards would relax their vigilance, and the unicorns would
break free. It didn't happen often, of course, because the
wizards kept close watch over the books. But now and
again, it did. Each time, it was the spirit part of the im-
prisoned unicorns that managed to escape—the magic of
the spirit always being stronger than that of the body. The
spirit would burn its way free of the pages of the book of
magic that bound it and escape. But it lacked a true phys-
ical presence. It was only a shadow formed of need and
will, a silhouette given momentary substance and life—
and not much more." He glanced quickly at Willow for
confirmation, and she nodded. "And because it was black
in color, being only a shadow, it was generally assumed
to be something evil rather than something good. After
all, whoever heard of a black unicorn? The wizards, I am
certain, spread the story that the black unicorn was an
aberration—a dangerous thing, perhaps even a demon.
They probably set a few examples to reinforce the belief.
That kept everyone away from it while the wizards
worked at getting it back again."

"The bridle of spun gold was used for that purpose,"
Willow interjected, picking up the story. "The wizards
employed their magic to create the bridle after the first
escape. The bridle was a magic that could draw and hold
the black unicorn, giving the wizards time to imprison it
anew. It was always caught quickly; it was never free for
long. It was sent back again into the books of magic, the

300 THE BLACK UNICORN

burned pages were restored, and all was as it had been.
The wizards took no chances. The books were their great-
est magic, and they could not risk damage to or loss of
them."

She turned to Ben. "That was why the black unicorn
was so frightened of me at first. Even in its need, it was
terrified. I felt its fear each. time I came close and again,
later, when I touched it. It believed me to be a tool of the
wizards that had imprisoned it. It couldn't know the truth.
It was not until the very end that it seemed to understand
that I was not in service to Meeks."

"Which brings us to the present," Ben announced,
straightening.' 'Meeks had gained possession of the books
of magic in his turn and had used them as had all the
wizards before him. But then the old King died and every-
thing started to fall into ruin. The black unicorn hadn't
escaped for a very long time—perhaps centuries—and
there hadn't been any need for the golden bridle in all
those years. I don't think even the wizards before Meeks
had paid a whole lot of attention to it for a while because
it was apparently before Meeks' time that it was stolen
for the first time by Nightshade. Later it was stolen by
Strabo and then went back and forth between the two after
that. Meeks knew where it was, I suppose, but the books
of magic were safely under his control, and the witch and
the dragon didn't know the real purpose of the bridle in
any case. The trouble started when Meeks went over to
my world to recruit a new King for Landover and hid the
books of magic in his absence. I suppose he thought he
wouldn't be gone long enough for anything to happen to
them, but things didn't work out that way. When I didn't
come crawling back to give up the medallion and the Iron
Mark didn't finish me off, Meeks suddenly found himself
trapped over there with the books of magic still hidden
over here. The magic that imprisoned the unicorns weak-
ened once more in his absence, and the spirit part—the

Terry Brooks                                301

black unicorn—burned free of the pages of its book and
escaped."

"So that was why my half-brother sent the dreams!"
Questor exclaimed, new understanding beginning to re-
flect on his owlish face. "He had to get back across into
Landover, recover the missing books, and find the golden
bridle—and quickly! If he didn't, the black unicom might
find a way to free all the white unicorns—its physical
selves—and the magic would be lost!"

"And that is exactly what it tried to do," Willow con-
firmed. "Not only this time, but every time it managed
to break free. It tried to find the one magic it believed
stronger than the magic of the wizards—the Paladin! Al-
ways before, it was caught so quickly that it never had
any real chance. It knew the Paladin was the King's cham-
pion, but it would never even manage to reach the King.
This time it was certain it could—except that there was
no King to be found. Meeks was quick to act, once he
discovered the unicom had escaped. A dream was used
to lure Ben out of Landover before the unicom could
reach him. Then Meeks crossed back with him and altered
his appearance so that no one—including the black uni-
com—could recognize him."

"I think it might have recognized me if it hadn't been
imprisoned for so long," Ben interjected. "The older fairy
creatures such as Nightshade and Strabo could recognize
me. But the unicom had forgotten much of its magic while
it was bound."

"It might have lost much as well through the wizards'
use of it,'' Willow added.

"Meeks told me that night in my bedchamber, when
he used his magic to change me, that I messed up his plans
in some way," Ben went on, returning to the matter of
his lost identity. "Of course, I didn't have any idea what
it was that I had done. I didn't know what he was talking
about. The truth was that everything I had done was in-
advertent. I didn't know that the books contained stolen

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302

magic and that, if he weren't within Landover, the magic
might be lost. I was just trying to stay alive."

"A moment, High Lord." Abemathy was shaking his
head in confusion. "Meeks sent three dreams—yours to
provide him a way back into Landover, Questor Thews'
to give him possession of the missing books of magic, and
Willow's to regain for him the stolen bridle. The dreams
worked as they were intended except for Willow's. She
found the bridle, but she failed to bring it back to you as
the dream had told her she must. Why so?"

"The fairies," Willow said.

"The fairies," Ben echoed.

"I said that first morning that my dream seemed in-
complete, that I felt I was to be shown more," Willow
explained. "There were other dreams after that; in each,
the unicorn appeared to be less a demon, more a victim.
The fairies sent those dreams to guide me in my search
and to teach me that my fears were false ones. Gradually,
I came to realize that the first dream was somehow a lie,
that the black unicorn was not my enemy, that it needed
help, and that I must provide that help. After the dragon
gave the bridle of spun gold to me, I was persuaded fur-
ther—by dreams and visions—that I must go in search
of the unicorn myself if I were ever to discover the truth
of matters."

"The fairies sent Edgewood Dirk to me." Ben sighed.
"They wouldn't intervene to help me directly, of
course—they never do that for anyone. Answers to our
difficulties must always come from within; they expect
us to solve our own problems. But Dirk was the catalyst
that helped me to do that. Dirk helped me to discover the
truth about the medallion. Meeks had instigated the de-
ception that led me to believe I had lost it. Dirk helped
me see that / was the one fostering that deception, and
that if I could recognize the truth of things, others could
as well—which is exactly what happened."

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"Which is why the Paladin was able to reach us in time,
apparently," Questor said.

"And why the books of magic were finally destroyed
and the unicorns freed," Willow added.

"And why Meeks was defeated," Abernathy finished.

"That's about it," Ben agreed.

"Great High Lord!" exclaimed Fillip fervently.

"Mighty High Lord!" echoed Sot.

Ben groaned. "Please! Enough already!"

He looked imploringly at the others, but they all just
grinned.

It was time to leave. No one much cared for the idea of
spending another night in the Melchor. It was agreed they
would be better offsetting up camp in the foothills-below.

So they trudged wearily down out of the mountains
through the fading daylight, the sun sinking behind the
western rim of the valley in a haze of scarlet and gray.
As they walked, Willow dropped back next to Ben, and
her arm locked gently about his.

"What do you think will become of the unicorns?" she
asked after a moment.

Ben shrugged. "They'll probably go back into the
mists, and no one will ever see them again."

' 'You do not think they will go on to the worlds to which
they were sent?"

"Out of Landover?" Ben shook his head. "No, not
after all they've been through. Not now. They'll go back
home where it's safe."

"It isn't safe in your world, is it?"

"Hardly."

"It isn't very safe in Landover, either."

"No."

"Do you think it is any safer in the mists?"
Ben thought about that a moment. "I don't know.
Maybe not."

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304

Willow nodded. "Your world has need of unicorns,
doesn't it? The magic is forgotten?"

"Pretty much."

"Then maybe it doesn't matter that it isn't safe there.
Maybe the need outweighs the danger. Maybe at least one
unicorn will decide to go anyway."

"Maybe, but I doubt it."-

Willow's head lifted slightly. "You say it, but you do
not mean it."

He smiled and did not reply.

They reached the foothills, passed through a broad
meadow of red-spotted wildflowers to a stretch of fir, and
the kobolds began scouting ahead for a campsite. The air
had gone cool, and the approaching twilight gave the land
a muted, silvery sheen. Crickets had begun to chirp, and
geese flew low across a distant lake. Ben was thinking
about home, about Sterling Silver, and the warmth of the
life that waited there for him.

"I love you," Willow said suddenly. She didn't look
at him, facing straight ahead as she spoke the words.

Ben nodded. He was quiet a moment. "I've been mean-
ing to say something to you about that. You tell me you
love me all the time, and I can never say it back to you.
I've been thinking lately about why that is, and I guess
it's because I'm afraid. It's like taking a chance you don't
have to take. It's easier to pass it by."

He paused. "But I don't feel that way right now, right
here. I feel altogether different. When you say you love
me, I find I want to say it back to you. So I guess I will.
I love you, too, Willow. I think I always did."

They walked on, not speaking. He was aware of the
increased pressure of her arm about his. The day was still
and restful, and everything was at peace.

"The Earth Mother made me promise to look after you,
you know," Ben said finally. "That's part of what started
me thinking about us. She made me promise to keep you
safe. She was most insistent."

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305

He could feel Willow's smile more than see it. "That
is because the Earth Mother knows," she said.

He waited for her to say something more, then glanced
down. "Knows what?"

"That one day I shall bear your child, High Lord."

Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly

"Oh."

Epilogue

It was two days before Christmas.

Southside Chicago was chill and dreary, the snowfall
of the previous night turned gray and mushy on walks and
streets, the squarish highrise projects and tenements
vague shadows in a haze of smoke and mist. Steam rose
out of sewer grates in sudden clouds as sleet pelted down.
Not much of anything was moving. Cars crawled by like
prehistoric beetles, headlights shining their luminous yel-
low eyes. Pedestrians ducked their heads against the cold,
their chins buried in scarves and collars, their hands
jammed into coat pockets. Late afternoon watched an
early evening's approach in gloomy silence.

The corner of Division and Elm was almost deserted.
Two boys with leather jackets, a commuting business-
man, and a carefully dressed woman, headed home from
shopping, stepped from a bus, and started walking in dif-
ferent directions. A shop owner paused to check the locks
on the front door of his plumbing business as he prepared
to close up for the day. A factory worker on the seven-
to-three shift ducked out ofBamey's Pub after two beers
and an hour of unwinding to begin the trudge two blocks
home to his ailing mother. An old man carrying a load of
groceries shuffled along a sidewalk path left in the snow
306

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307

by a trail of icy footprints. A small child engulfed by her
snowsuit played with a sled by the steps other apartment
home.

They ignored each other with casual indifference, lost
in their own private thoughts.

The white unicorn flew past them like a bit of strayed
light. It sped by as if its sole purpose in being was to circle
the whole of the world in a single day. It never seemed
to touch the ground, its graceful, delicate body gathering
and extending in a single fluid motion as it passed. All the
beauty in the world—all that was or could ever be—was
captured by its movement. It was there and gone in an
instant. The watchers caught their breath, blinked once,
and the unicorn had disappeared.

There followed a moment of uncertainty. The old man's
mouth dropped open. The child put down her sled and
stared. The two boys ducked their heads and muttered
urgently. The businessman looked at the shop owner and
the shop owner looked back. The carefully dressed
woman remembered all those magical stories of fairies she
still enjoyed reading. The factory worker thought sud-
denly of Christmas as a child.

Then the moment passed, and they all moved on. Some
walked more quickly, some more slowly. They glanced
over at the misted, empty street. What was it they had
seen? Had it really been a unicorn? No, it couldn't have
been. There were no such things as unicorns—not really.
And not in cities. Unicorns lived in forests. But they had
seen something. Hadn't they seen something? Hadn't
they? They walked on, silent, and there was a warmth
within each of them at the memory of what they had ex-
perienced. There was a feeling of having been a part of
something magical.

They took that feeling home with them. Some of them
kept it for a time. Some of them passed it on.