The daïcha halted before the last compartment, one far roomier than the rest. A two-foot in green falseskins had just finished raking out the old, yellow grass thickly carpeting the floor. A companion stood throwing down heaps of fresh. The dark unicorn breathed deep, finding at last the scent he had missed. Though this space, too, stood unoccupied, it had lately housed a stallion, young and vigorous and in full prime.

The daïcha swung open the compartment’s front panel, and the dark unicorn entered. Forage and water were brought to him. Tai-shan ate greedily: berries and fodder, nutmeats broken from the shell, all crushed, blended together somehow, and steaming. Afterwards, the daïcha drew a bristly clump of spines through his coat. They felt like a thousand tiny birds’ claws scrabbling, scratching away the grit and seasalt and old, sloughed skin.

The dark unicorn sighed deeply, sank down at last and closed his eyes. Softly bedded and sumptuously feasted, solicitously groomed and well sheltered against the cold, he let his thoughts drift back to his last glimpse of the firekeepers’ dark dwellings spilling the slopes below, illuminated by spots of flame like a hillside strewn with burning stars. He had never known such luxury. On the morrow, he would seek out the other unicorns that abode here and learn from them of this strange and marvelous haven to which he had come.

Snow fell in gusts, bitterly cold. Tek stood on the valley floor while around her jostled most of the unicorns from the south west quarter of the Vale. The pied mare shivered, even in her thick winter coat, dense now as a marten’s pelt. They had come upon no more windfalls like the tuckfruit—days ago, and like her fellows, she had no layer of fat to keep out the cold. Sa brushed against her. Dagg appeared out of the press and halted along her other side.

“What do you think the king intends?” he asked her softly.

The healer’s daughter shook her head. It was the first assembly Korr had called since the courting band had returned from the Sea, weeks past. Around them, the herd milled expectantly, huddled for warmth. Tek caught snatches of conversation, speculation. She spotted runners standing ready to carry the king’s word to the far reaches of the Vale. Seasoned warriors all, she noted, especially chosen by the king. Beside her, the pied mare heard Dagg snort.

“Were Jan among us still,” he muttered, “those runners would include half-growns as well.”

She nodded. “True.” Jan might have traveled to the far reaches of the Vale himself to spread the news, she mused.

Faintly, the healer’s daughter smiled, remembering. Her young mate, the prince, had been fearless of change: ever one to break with precedent when precedent failed to serve. The newer warriors had all adored him—though old traditionalists, she knew, had greeted Jan’s innovations with consternation. And none so markedly as Korr. Bitterly, she sighed. How different the king was from his son!

A sudden stirring swept the crowd as, through the diffuse grey of falling snow, Korr’s massy, storm-dark form appeared. His mate and Dagg’s father, Tas, flanked the king. Her own sire, Teki, brought up the rear. The crowd parted as the procession neared, and with a shock, Tek spotted Lell pressed close to her mother’s flank.

The flame-colored mare moved slowly, shielding her filly with tender care. Alongside walked Leerah, Tas’s mate, lending her shoulder, too, against the biting wind. The amber filly stumbled, racked with cold. The king never so much as glanced behind. Tek gazed at Korr, angry and aghast—for his daughter’s presence could only be by king’s command. Ses would never willingly expose her tiny nursling to such weather. The brow of the king’s mate was furrowed, her jaw set.

The pied mare sidled uneasily. Abruptly, she realized she should have melted back into the crowd at the king’s approach: too late now to do so unseen. She stood her ground, and Korr passed directly before her, spoke not a word, merely leveled at her his ferocious stare. Tek’s heart clenched. Grimly, she lifted her chin, refused to flinch beneath the dark stallion’s gaze. In a bound, he mounted the council rise and turned, looming above them like a thunderhead.

“Unicorns!” he called. “Children-of-the-moon! Since I learned the harsh news of my son’s death, you have seen me but little. I was deep in grief, struggling to fathom why Alma should claim my son, your prince, bereaving us all.”

Korr’s fine, deep voice penetrated even the muffle of wind and snow. Glancing about her, Tek glimpsed a thin young mare shushing a companion, an old stallion pricking his ears. Long starved for the sight of their king, the unicorns quieted, listened attentively.

“My son was a fine warleader, was he not?” continued Korr. “A bit rash and hotheaded, to be sure—but quick in wit and great in heart, a courageous warrior! You loved him well.”

A cry of agreement went up. The healer’s daughter watched a cluster of spindly half-growns a few paces off, snorting and stamping in assent. Beyond them, a gaunt pair of elders nodded. A rush of gratification welled up in her. They had loved Jan—even the older warriors whom the young prince’s reformations had so often confounded. The king raised his head.

“Aye, you loved him. As did I. But what of Alma?” The great stallion’s tone abruptly darkened. “How must Alma have felt to see my son’s wildness, all his princely verve and quickness of mind—though never ill-meant—used but to bend her Law and flout her will and tempt us, her best beloved, along untried paths, kicking aside her time-honored practice as though it were worthless nothing?”

Tek felt a frown furrow her brow. What was this talk of Alma and the Law in the selfsame breath? “Alma does not make the Law,” she murmured. “The Council of Elders makes the Law and always has—”

“Could such have been the will of Alma,” the king inquired, still facing the herd from the rocky rise, “to see her anointed prince, my son, flagrantly leading her children astray?”

Tek snorted, baffled. Was the prince of a sudden to be deemed the anointed of Alma?

“Only the prophets are anointed of Alma—” Dagg started beneath his breath, but the king’s words cut him off.

“No!” Korr thundered, his voice rebounding from the far hillside. “Such blasphemy could not have been the goddess’s will. And so she swept away my son—as she will sweep away all who fail her trust.”

The dark stallion wheeled, stamping, tossing his head, full of fury now. The healer’s daughter watched him, astonished. She heard Sa beside her champ her teeth. Beyond Dagg, a young warrior mare—ribs showing—was standing stock-still despite the cold. Beside her, a couple of half-starved colts poised motionless, as though caught by a wyvern’s glare. Her own limbs felt stiff. Hastily, Tek shook herself. All around her the herd stood frozen as if mesmerized. “First Alma sent her gryphons,” ranted the king, “but we paid no heed. Then she seized our prince, my son. Now she has sent this harsh winter to chastise us! “The pied mare listened dumbstruck, appalled.

“Jan was a brave prince, my own get, and I loved him,” the dark stallion cried, “but he was wrong! In his pride, he defied Alma. In destroying him, the goddess speaks clear warning: we must turn back! We must return to the old ways and the true worship of Alma. Only if we once more devote ourselves unswervingly to her will can spring return and again bestow upon us her blessings.”

Beside her, she felt Dagg snorting in disgust, glimpsed the troubled look on Sa’s face deepen into dismay.

“Old ways—which ones?” she heard the grey mare breathe. “And true worship—what on earth can my son mean? Is now even the weather to be ascribed to Alma?”