The tercel’s words trailed off, his breathing deepening, nearly snoring now. Across the coals from him, the young prince sighed again. “Aye,” he murmured. “Unicorns are a boar-headed lot.”

He dreamed a dream of gryphons and unicorns sharing the Vale without rancor, wingcats perching the cliffs above, his own people grazing the valley floor below. Here and there, on the slopes between valley floor and cliffs, he glimpsed odd creatures, seemingly half wingcat, half unicorn. Their limbs, torsos, and hindquarters were those of unicorns; shoulders, necks, and heads plumed and pinioned like gryphons. Stroking their great wings, they galloped across steep, grassy slopes and, vaulting into the air, took flight.

He awoke with a start. Ryhenna stood over him, pawing at him with one round forehoof. The embers before him lay cold. Across them, Illishar lounged at ease—alert, awake, but resting. The mat of seaweed lay before him, oddly heaped and twisted. The coppery mare glanced nervously at the gryphon, then pawed Jan again. Cold dawn greyly lit the beach.

“Wake, Moonbrow,” Ryhenna hissed.” ‘Tis morn.”

The dark unicorn rolled stiffly, gathered his limbs under him, but did not rise. Still eyeing the gryphon tercel, the coppery mare backed off.

“All night, I watched,” she told him, “to guard thee. Thy foe is hungry still.”

Illishar said nothing, watched them, rustling and twisting between his talons the mat of seaweed before him. Jan staggered to his feet, shaking himself. The silver halter rattled. He had not meant to sleep.

“My thanks, Ryhenna,” he told her sincerely. “You guard me better than I guard myself.”

The coppery mare tossed her head, bleary-eyed. “I go to the glade to sleep,” she told him. “Come fetch me when thou wilt.”

Jan nodded, watched Ryhenna lope away along the beach toward the grove. The rustle of seaweed drew his attention back to Illishar.

“Your hornless mare would have been little hindrance to me, had I sought to steal upon you unawares,” he murmured to Jan.

Walking around the remains of the fire, the young prince drew closer. “You underestimate Ryhenna,” he answered.” She held off a troop of two-foot warriors on the white cliffs of the City of Fire. She would make no easy match for you. But if—as you say—it were so easy a task,” he asked, “why did you not kill me this night past when you had the chance?”

The tercel shrugged painfully. “What use, Jan of the unicorns?” he asked. “My wing is bent past repair. I will die soon regardless—why prolong my life a few more days on your bones?”

The seaweed rustled. Jan cocked his head, eyed Illishar’s nimble digits twisting and plaiting it. “What do you fashion?”

“A net,” the tercel replied, spreading it so that the dark unicorn might better see. “To help me fish. Perhaps after you and your mare tire of me and depart—if you do not kill me outright—this net may enable me to live a little longer.”

Jan met the gryphon’s eye, and for the first time, Illishar looked away. Jan allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “I see you have not yet despaired of your life as wholly as you pretend,” he told the gryphon. “Perhaps you yet dream of returning to your people?”

“Vain dreams!” the tercel exclaimed, casting the seaweed net from him angrily. “The bone set wrong. I will never fly again.”

Jan lay down on the rocks, still out of reach, but closer to the injured wingcat than he had ever dared to come.

“Among my people,” he told Illishar, “when one of our number breaks a limb, our pied healer, Teki, plasters it with mudclay to keep it stiff until the bone can heal. If it begins to heal wrong, he breaks it again. I have seen him do this.”

He thought back to the preceding spring, Dagg cracking one forelimb in a slip on a crumbling slope. He remembered Teki’s ministrations; himself, Tek, and others flanking the injured warrior by turns, keeping him upright, walking him three-legged, bringing him forage. The memory made him shudder. Even in the warmth and abundant provender of last spring, Dagg easily could have died.

“It was horrible to watch,” Jan told the gryphon who lay before him in the rocks, “but my companion survived, and the bone knit strong and straight. Now he runs again as fleetly as before, as though the limb had never suffered ill.”

“Why tell me this?” the gryphon cried, spitting a twist of seaweed from his beak. “To torment me? What use for me to hear of unicorns’ legs? It is my wing that is broken—my wing! Tell me what good you can do my crooked pinion, unicorn.”

The last words were a snarl, full of bitterness.

“I could rebreak your wing, Illishar,” Jan said to him, “bring mud to plaster it. You must keep it very still, three half-moons or more, until it heals.”

The tercel stared at Jan. “Our two peoples are sworn enemies,” he whispered. “You would not do it.”

“Call me your enemy no more,” Jan bade him, drawing nearer. “I grow weary of our being enemies. The scars your talons left upon my back this autumn past are old scars now, long healed. Time to heal this ancient rift between our peoples as well.”

“No!” cried Illishar, shifting as though to drag himself away from Jan. “Even if you spoke the truth and could reset my wing so that it might heal, do you and your mare intend to remain all spring upon this shore? Who would feed me while my pinion mended? The accursed seaherons have given me over.”

Jan shook his head. “I will speak to Tlat and entreat her to continue to tend you. Now that spring has returned, the tidewaters teem with fish. The herons can provide for you without hardship. I think they will do so if I assure them you mean to return to your flock and speak for peace not only between gryphons and unicorns, but between gryphons and seaherons as well.”

“I have made you no such pledge,” Illishar protested angrily, “to speak for peace among my flock on your behalf.”

“Think, Illishar,” the dark prince urged, “of the glory to be gained. More glory in merely killing an enemy and arousing his people’s hatred against yours all the more, or in taming and allying with him, adding his strength and that of all his people to your own? What more glorious tribute could you possibly lay before your leader, Malar, than the prospect of this great peacemaking?”

Illishar twitched unhappily, pondering. His bill clapped shut. “You have a point, unicorn,” he managed, unwillingly. “Perhaps—perhaps–peace may be possible between our peoples. But the seaherons! Shrieking pests, they have tormented me all this winter past. Their kind has always been a bane to mine….”

“Peace with the herons as well as the unicorns,” Jan answered firmly. “Such is my price.”

The gryphon tercel sighed, snapping his beak shut once more. At last he muttered, “As you will.”

The dark prince whickered, tossing his head. “One more thing I would ask of you,” he added, “one more part to my price.”

The silver halter jingled. Illishar eyed him suspiciously.

“Remove this halter,” he entreated the gryphon. “Surely your talons are dexterous enough to undo the fastening. Bear it back to your people in token of the bargain we have made.”

The tercel’s green-eyed gaze grew wide, astonished.

“You would trust me so close?” he asked.

The dark unicorn rose, shook himself, shrugged. “It seems I must. I cannot remove this halter on my own. And if you kill me, who will reset your wing?”

Illishar laughed suddenly. To Jan’s surprise, it was not the shrill, raucous bird sound he might have expected, but a deep, throaty, catlike thrumming—almost a purr.

“Your hooves and horn are no less formidable than my beak and talons,” the wingcat chuckled. “It seems we must trust one another perforce.”

Jan nodded and knelt beside the great raptor, bowing his head to one side so that the other could reach the halter’s fastening. Illishar seemed to consider a long moment before Jan felt his sharp, unexpectedly delicate talons picking at the buckle. The halter grew loose about Jan’s head, but as he moved to pull away, to rise and shake himself free, the other’s grasp gently restrained him.