It was clearly a room made for writing. Books, scrolls, stacks of paper, notebooks, pens, and pots of ink seemed to cover every available surface — of which there were many, since the room held five long, low tables. The dark wooden walls were lined with maps, pictures, and intricately woven tapestries. Unlike the portraits in the first hall, these pictures seemed to illustrate specific events.
The walls (of which there were also many, for the room was full of nooks and crannies) were made of stone and wood. Natural outthrusts of stone had been carved into seats; some were even padded with cushions. Three of the larger indentations in the cavern walls had been transformed into lantern-lit reading nooks featuring shelves carved right into the stone. The shelves held pens, papers, and some little wooden figures.
In one wall a merry fire blazed in a huge fireplace. Unlike the cavern’s witchfire, this one cast a lovely warmth. A broad shallow pit carved in front of the hearth provided a spot to sit and gaze into the flames.
It took Cara a moment to realize that the chairs were of many sizes. She suddenly suspected that the rugs scattered about the floor were, in fact, resting places for guests.
To the left of the fireplace a little stream sprang from an opening about five feet above the floor, creating a tiny waterfall. At its base was a pool about three feet in diameter. No stream ran out of the pool, so Cara assumed the water must somehow drain from the bottom.
Next to the little fall stood a rack that held a collection of cups and noggins of many sizes and shapes.
I want to live here! thought Cara.
“Find a place and settle in,” said Grimwold as he scurried behind one of the tables. Mounting a stool, he spread a piece of curling paper before him, then set a polished rock at each corner to hold it down. Muttering to himself, he began trying to select a pen.
Lightfoot folded his legs and curled up on a deep purple rug. The Dimblethum and Thomas each picked up a wooden chair and moved it closer to the fire. After running about for a moment, the Squijum finally leaped into Thomas’s lap; wrapping his tail around himself, he settled down with a sigh. (Three minutes later, however, he was climbing onto shelves and examining things.)
Cara hesitated, then positioned herself beside Lightfoot. Though she had wanted to sit with him all along, she had been afraid he would think she was clinging to him. Then she realized that if she didn’t sit with him, she would not be able to understand anything the Dimblethum or the Squijum said.
“All right, what’s your story?” asked Grimwold, looking directly at Cara.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your story, your story,” he said impatiently. “That’s my job, to collect all the stories that involve the unicorns.”
“Not only to collect them,” said Lightfoot sharply. “To record them and make them accessible. You’ll have the story in good time. Right now, we need the story behind what is happening to this child. Cara, show him the amulet.”
Rising, Cara pulled the amulet from beneath her T-shirt. Lifting the chain over her head, she carried it to Grimwold. He gasped. “One of the Queen’s Five,” he muttered as he examined it. After a moment he looked up at her. “Did Ivy give this to you?”
Cara nodded.
“Why?”
She took a breath, then told him what had happened the evening she and her grandmother had been pursued into St. Christopher’s. Grimwold made notes as she spoke, his pen scratching across the paper. When she was finished, he picked up the amulet and let it dangle from his fingertips. He stared at it with an expression that Cara found strange and terrible. After a moment he looked at Lightfoot and said, “I fear that the Hunters have returned.”
“Who are the Hunters?” asked Cara.
Before Grimwold could answer, Lightfoot came to stand beside her. She placed her hand on his shoulder.
“Use the common tongue,” the unicorn said to Grimwold. “The others must hear this as well.”
To Cara’s shock, she felt an undertone of fear in Lightfoot’s message, a fear so strong it frightened her as well.
“Certainly,” said Grimwold, “though much of it will be things that you already know.”
“That is all right,” said Lightfoot. “Cara, come sit with me while Grimwold tells of what has been, of the enemy that drove us from Earth so long ago.”
They returned to the purple rug. Cara knelt with her hand on Lightfoot’s neck and stared at the old man expectantly The Dimblethum growled and shifted in his seat. The Squijum left off his explorations and returned to Thomas’s lap.
Looking directly at Cara, Grimwold said, “This is the story of the hunting of the unicorns, and how it began. At least, it is the short version of that tale, for I could tell it in a way that would take many evenings and let you know the deeds of many heroes, both human and unicorn.”
He lowered his voice, speaking more intensely. “Their sacrifices led to the creation of the first door between Earth and Luster, the path the unicorns followed to safety and freedom. This is the story behind that story, the story from which springs all other stories gathered here in the Unicorn Chronicles, all other songs sung on this world. It is a tale woven from greed and loss, lies and truth, bravery and sacrifice, ending and beginning.”
As Grimwold continued, Cara felt herself moving into the trance of the story. The power of his telling brought the tale to life inside her, drawing her back to a time long gone. . . .
* * *
“Back in the morning of your world [said Grimwold] when things were sweeter rougher stranger cleaner and more savage than they are today, the unicorns came forth. No one knows from whence they came. No one knows why. They just were. Their numbers were few, as if the world could only hold so much of their magic. And magic they were, for in their horns, in their hooves, in their very being, they carried the power to transform things.
“At first even the unicorns did not know the extent of their powers. But as time went on they found that they could clear water, heal wounds, quicken growth.
“In that early time the unicorns lived in harmony with the world, bringing it sweetness and guarding some of the small animals for whom they took a fondness. They gathered much wisdom, which they stored in their heads, as they had no means of writing it down. Of course, in the newness of the world, there was less to know, and among them the unicorns could hold all that they had learned. Because they can communicate so easily, the knowledge was accessible to all.
“Eventually another creature came to power. That was man. And though your species has many virtues, child, there is a strain of savagery running through it that has driven much of the best and most beautiful that your world once offered into extinction, or — as in the case of the unicorns — exile.”
The Dimblethum growled softly, as if remembering some old anger. Grimwold nodded toward him, acknowledging his right to complain, then continued his story.
“Man hunted. He hunted for food, for skins to warm himself and his family, even for sport. But he did not hunt the unicorns.
“Now death comes for all things, even unicorns, though they are remarkably long-lived. When the first of their kind died, a great mourning overtook the unicorns. The twelve oldest came to her body and with their horns changed her flesh to soil, her bones to water, her mane and tail to flowers. But they could not change her horn, for it was too powerful. The horn stayed as it was.
“From its perfect beauty flowed inestimable tragedy.”
Cara felt Lightfoot shiver.
“A man found the horn and brought it back to his people,” continued Grimwold. “But to make himself seem braver and more honorable, he did a dishonorable thing. He told a great lie about the ferocity of the unicorn from which he had taken the horn, claiming that she had attacked him in the wood, and that he had battled it to the death. In that falsehood lay the seeds of the tragedy that followed.”