“We will talk more of Jan soon,” I assured her. “We have all winter to plan. Presently I will let thee sleep. But first, healing. Look: the herbs for which I had sent have now arrived.”

Lifting her sagging head and dragging open heavy eyes, Tek heard movement in the grotto’s entryway. All at once, an unmistakable odor filled her nostrils: salty and goaty. The verges of the Pan Woods lay not far off. Panicked, the pied mare was just gathering her limbs to scramble up with a warning cry of “Pans! Pans!” when her dam snorted, whickering.

“Peace, daughter. These goatlings are come at my request.”

From around the curve which hid the entryway, two young pans appeared, both females, huddled beneath shaggy drapes: one bearskin, by the smell of it; the other, boar. Tek’s nose rankled. She stared at the loathsome, spindly creatures as both dropped their cloaks by the entrance. Catching sight of the pied mare, they grimaced, baring their square little teeth—or was such the pan way of smile? The elder goatling grunted and twittered at Jah-lila, gesturing with hairless forelimbs as she spoke. The Red Mare replied with similar twittering, incomprehensible to Tek.

“What,” she gasped, “what do such creatures purpose here?”

“They dwell here,” her mother calmly replied, slipping back into the unicorn way of speech, “under my care.” Smiling now, the Red Mare glanced warmly at the young pans. “I found these starving at wood’s edge one day, years past. Their dam had been killed by a cat and their people fled. I have sheltered and raised them, suckling them like fillies. The elder already spoke enough of their odd, guttural speech for me to follow. It is not so unlike that of the two-footed firekeepers. And I have learned more in conversing with other goatlings in the wood.”

Tek shivered at the thought. Pensively, her mother sighed.

“But since many quirks of the face and forelimb also hold meaning—and most of these I can at best only approximate—I fear I still speak Pan but poorly. It has been far easier for these two to learn Unicorn. They call me ‘ama’ now, which means ‘mother’ in their tongue. They are my acolytes: herbalists and midwives. It is they who gathered our grotto’s winter provisions. The taller is Sismoomnat, the younger Pitipak. They have been eager to meet you and gladly scoured their home woods this day for the rare and perishable herbs you must take before you sleep.”

Eyeing the ugly, upright goatlings, Tek felt her skin tremor. Despite her dam’s reassuring tone, the pied mare could scarcely restrain her urge to bolt. Only overwhelming fatigue kept her reclining as the pair of pans approached, laying before her a great clump of ferny, withered fronds. They crouched then, openly curious. The younger one, nearest to Jah-lila, laid one slender forepaw on the Red Mare’s neck and stroked her companionably. Jah-lila nuzzled the young goatling easily as one might a filly. All at once, Tek felt her revulsion beginning to fade. She could scarcely catch her breath for wonder.

“Greet-ings, Tek, Jah-ama’s daughter,” the elder, Sismoomnat, pronounced carefully, her birdlike inflection strangely melodious. “Wel-come to our home. We have brought you ama’s herbs. Ama has told us you would find your way to us before the win-ter was out. We are so glad that you have come, and that at last we may behold you. Wel-come, foster sister. Wel-come home.”

Awakening, the dark unicorn felt sluggish, strangely fatigued, though he was aware he must have slept long and deep. His mouth felt gummy, dry. It was morning now. He remembered vaguely leaving the palace grounds and wandering the city. How long ago? He stirred, trying to gather his clumsy limbs. With great effort, he heaved himself up and stumbled to the water trough, drank—but his head did not clear. All he longed for was to drift. He sensed movement and turned—very slowly. Ryhenna stood in the stall opposite his, her look one of apprehension. Her sisters occupied other stalls.

“How dost thou fare, my lord?” she asked. “Thou didst sleep so late, I had begun to fear….”

The dark unicorn blinked, tongue fumbling over the words. “Tired,” he told her. “Very tired.”

A hazy memory came to him of green-clad two-foots leading the mares into the warm enclosure. His head nodded, thoughts slipping away. Time passed. A sound at the end of the aisle roused him. The dark unicorn swung himself slowly around to see the chon’s purple-badged minion coming down the aisle, carrying a steaming wooden hollow. It bore the delicious fragrance of sweetmeal. Tai-shan moved forward eagerly as the two-foot emptied the steaming meal into his trough.

Followers of the daïcha accompanied the male two-foot, but the hollows they carried contained only dry grain, which they poured into the troughs of the other stalls. As Ryhenna and her sisters dipped their noses to the feed, it occurred to Tai-shan to wonder why the mares should receive fare different from his own. He struggled to speak, but the same dulling sense of drowsiness he had suffered the previous evening was stealing over him again. He lay down heavily, numb.

Across from him, the coppery mare lifted her head from her trough. A worried expression furrowed her brow as she gazed at the dark unicorn. Tai-shan’s vision blurred. Sleep dragged at him. He would speak with Ryhenna later, ask her about the feed, about what troubled her. Soon. Just as soon as he had rested and his mind grew clear.

Time drifted by. He could not say how long. Weeks perhaps. His injured throat seemed to heal in moments. The dark unicorn was only dimly aware of winter passing, waning. It would be spring again soon. Ryhenna and her sisters remained stabled with him within the warm enclosure, but Tai-shan never mustered energy enough to ask the coppery mare what plainly continued to disturb her. If only he were not so sleepy all the time! Sweetmeal was all the two-foots fed him now.

The daïcha returned at intervals to gaze at him, talk to him, stroke his neck. She seemed unbearably sad somehow. Messengers from the chon often called her away. The chon himself never appeared, though the ruler’s purple-plumed minions stood constant watch outside the warm enclosure’s egress. They no longer allowed the lady to lead Tai-shan to the yard for exercise along with the mares. The dark unicorn raised no protest. His strange, all-pervasive lassitude made any effort impossible.

But troubling dreams began to invade his sleep: a Vale shrouded deep in drifted snow, winterkilled unicorns lying frozen, others starving. He saw a night-dark stallion, stark-eyed and fanatical, haranguing the cowed, exhausted herd, a crescent-shaped smear of white mud marking his brow. Equally fervent companions surrounded him, their fellows moving in a pack through the crowd: harassing and bullying, demanding answers. “Where is she, the pied wych? Did you help her to escape?”

About whom were they speaking? The dreaming unicorn could not begin to guess. All he saw seemed familiar somehow—yet memory slipped away from him the moment he woke.

Soon he no longer slept the nights through. Restless, unable to recall what frightening images had tangled through his sleeping brain only moments before, he often remained awake the balance of the night, reluctant to return to the unremembered country of his dreams. Mornings and afternoons, he dozed. Ryhenna, though clearly distressed, seemed hesitant to disturb him. As spring approached, his reveries grew more vivid. Often now he remembered snatches: before him in dreams, the moonbrowed stallion reared.

“I am your Firebringer!” he shouted. “Come spring, we must find and slay the pied wych who seduced my son. Only thus may we gain Alma’s blessing for our war against the gryphons!”