She saw no choice but to obey. The trees thinned and ended not many yards distant, and though the undergrowth was difficult to navigate in the darkness, she broke through the forest at last. The ground was rocky and inclined steeply uphill, but after a few minutes’ climb she could take stock of her surroundings. She stood at the bottom of a deep gorge filled from one end to the other with forest, twisting on around a bend beyond her sight. A trail that looked as though it had not been traveled in generations led up from the gorge to the high country above. And over her head, in fantastic, impossible beauty, arched a bridge, spanning the gorge, gleaming white in the moonlight. She recognized its Faerie craftsmanship and wondered that the world of mortal men should boast so beautiful a creation.
The climb up the trail was difficult, and the queen was near the end of her strength when at last she emerged upon the high country. This was not a land she knew, but it was far from Arpiar. She smelled roses, free blossoms unsullied by her husband’s hand. And the moon that glowed above was no illusion. By its glow, she could discern the contours of an enormous garden or park. A king’s grounds, she thought. A fit home for her daughter.
The unicorn sang from the Wilderlands below.
Anahid screamed at the sound and started to run but tripped on the uneven soil and staggered to her knees. The baby wailed.
“Why have you brought me to this place?” the queen demanded, though she did not speak aloud. “We are unprotected in the Near World. Even my husband’s enchantments must fade. It will find her for sure!”
The Fallen One may not enter the Near World. It must remain in the Wood Between.
The unicorn sang again. But it did not call for the queen, so she could not understand the words. Her daughter ceased crying, and when Anahid looked at her, she was surprised to find two wide eyes blinking up at her. “Don’t listen,” she said, trying to cover the baby’s ears.
She cannot hear its voice. Her ears are full of my song.
Anahid breathed in relief and got to her feet. She moved unsteadily across the terrain until she came to a rosebush, not far from the great bridge. Kneeling, the Queen of Arpiar placed her bundle there and stopped a moment to gaze into her child’s face, watching it wrinkle and relax and wrinkle again as though uncertain whether or not to be afraid.
Sorrowfully, she watched the change spread across the little face as the enchantments of Arpiar frayed and fell away. She closed her eyes and placed a hand upon her daughter’s heart.
“With all the love I have to give,” she murmured, “though that is little enough.” Then she closed her eyes and raised both her hands toward the moon, cupping them as though to offer or receive a benediction. “I cry you mercy, Lord, and beg your protections upon my child! Shield her within this land from my husband’s gaze. So long as she dwells in this high country, let her escape the spells of Arpiar.”
A flutter drew her attention, and she saw a bird with a white speckled breast land in the rosebush above the child. Its wings disturbed the roses so that they dropped great red petals upon the baby’s face, the most delicate of veils.
Your child is safe in my protection, now and always.
“Do you promise?” said the queen.
I promise. I claim her as one of mine.
“Then I shall return to Arpiar glad.”
You may stay, child. You are not bound to that world.
“I will return,” she said.
Another voice disturbed the night, an old voice as rough as the earth, rugged with mortality. “Oi! Who’s there?”
Anahid leapt to her feet, cast one last look at her daughter, then fled into the night. At the edge of the gorge, she turned, her enormous eyes watching from the darkness. She saw a stocky mortal man, a gardener perhaps, with gray beginning to dominate his beard, step off the Faerie bridge. He went to the rosebush and knelt. Anahid held her breath. She heard the sharp intake of breath, then the man exclaim, “Well now, ain’t you a sight, wee little one! How’d you end up out here on so dark a night?”
I claim her as one of mine, sang the wood thrush to Anahid.
She watched the gardener lift her child, then bowed her head, unwilling to see more. The next moment, the queen vanished down the trail, swallowed up by the Wilderlands below.
The unicorn met her there.
1
THE PRINCE OF SOUTHLANDS WAS BEWITCHED.
Rumor of his bewitchment had been spreading like a plague through the kingdom ever since he was sixteen years old: how the prince had returned from a summer in the mountains, bringing with him a little demon child and installing her as a servant in his father’s house.
Cheap chitchat, to be sure. But fun fare with which to scare the children on a cold winter’s night. “Watch out that you put your muddy boots away where they belong, or the prince’s demon will come fetch you!”
At first, nobody believed it. Nobody, that is, except the servants of the Eldest’s House, who worked with the girl in question.
“She gives me the shivers!” said Mistress Deerfoot to Cook. “With those veils of hers, she looks like a ghost. What do you think she hides behind them?”
“Her devil’s horns, of course. And her fangs.”
“Go on!” Mistress Deerfoot slapped Cook’s shoulder (for she was rather keen on him). “Do be serious!”