“Grace? Are you awake? Can you hear me?” From around the edge of the wall, Alan called in a hissing whisper. She only had to move a few steps to see him. If she could move.

She worked her jaw, stretching her face, still sore from the beating. “Yes.”

“You must plead your belly. The Marshal can’t hang you. I won’t see you hanged—”

“No. I’ll die with you; there’s nothing else for me.”

“God damn you, Grace.”

She chuckled painfully. “You as well.”

She’d sail off the edge of the world with him. She very nearly had, that time through the Iron Teeth. This was simply another journey, and it would be over soon. Rope around her neck, a moment of fear, then nothing. That was fine. She only wanted to see him one more time.

She heard him take a wet breath; he was bloodied from his own beating. “Mister Lark. You are the finest first mate I have ever known. You have never disobeyed an order from your captain before. So. I order you to live. I order you to live and raise our child. Do you understand me?”

“Don’t ask me to do this, Alan. Please don’t ask.” Her face was so bruised, she couldn’t tell if she was crying. Her whole body was numb.

The iron door of the dungeon opened. The Marshal of Hellwarth and a squad of his men entered, fanning out before the captain and first mate of the Nymph.

“Captain Alan. Mister Lark. Well met.”

The Marshal still didn’t know about her. They beat her when they stormed the Nymph, but didn’t examine her beyond a cursory search for weapons. The Marshal was in a hurry to hang the whole crew before they mounted some spectacular escape. Her hair was cut short, a ragged mat above her ears. Her breasts were bandaged flat. She fooled everyone, because no one believed a woman would sail with pirates.

“I have confessions for you to sign. It will expedite the process.”

She spit in his direction, a bloodied gob of mucus. Couldn’t tell if she managed to hit anything. “Bastard,” someone muttered.

“Do it,” Alan said in a low voice. “Tell him.”

“No.” Live. That’s an order. But he wasn’t the captain anymore if he didn’t have a ship.

Chains clinked—Alan straightening. When he spoke, his voice was clear, commanding. God, he was still the captain, damn him.

“My first officer cannot sign your confession, Marshal.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll tell you alone. Tell your men to leave.” The Marshal frowned, and Alan said, “For God’s sake, what can I do to you now? I give you my word this is no trick.”

The Marshal sent his men away, so the three of them were alone. And Alan told him.

“The name is wrong.”

“On the contrary, I have all Gregory Lark’s aliases listed—”

“Grace Lark. Her name is Grace Lark.”

She closed her eyes. It was all over now. They’d still kill Alan, but she would have to live. And remember.

The Marshal, a stout man, imposing, determined, with slate-gray hair and well-trimmed sideburns, came at her, knife in hand. He tore open her shirt, ripping away buttons. Cutting away the undershirt, he found the bandage. Then he cut through the bandage. She stared at him all the while, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

Amazed, he backed from her a step or two. He only stared a moment, then looked away. Almost tenderly, he closed the edges of her shirt.

“There’s more. She’s with child. I must plead her belly for her since she refuses to do so herself.”

“Damn.” Louder, the Marshal said, “You sent my men away because this is one story you don’t wish to spread.”

“I see we understand each other, Marshal. Do what you will to me. I’ll sign anything. But spare her.”

The Marshal of Hellwarth went to the other side of the wall. A key turned in a lock. Pen scratched on paper. Alan signed away his life.

“Thank you, Captain. As for the rest, I will do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Alan said, sounding relieved.

Grace fought her chains, but only succeeded in cutting her wrists. Fresh blood clotted on dried scabs.

The Marshal called his men. Two went to unchain Alan. When they brought him toward the door, he came into view. He twisted in his captors’ grips to look at her.

His face was bloody, his pale hair matted into a cut on his forehead. He could barely keep his feet without the help of the soldiers. She wanted to rush to him.

“Remember your orders,” he said, and they dragged him away.

“Mister Lark will be staying with us a little longer,” the Marshal said to his lieutenant. Then they left her there, alone.

She called his name. She shouted after him, her voice husky and ragged, because she had forgotten how to scream like a woman.

They hanged the crew in batches. Six times she heard the gallows floor drop and the ropes creak. Captain Alan they hanged alone. The crowd cheered.

Gregory Lark was listed hanged with the rest. The Marshal moved her to a different cell, gave her a change of clothes, and she was Grace again. He held her for two months, until her condition became indisputable. Then, he blindfolded her and packed her into a carriage. For a full day the carriage traveled, with Grace blind to all. At the end of the journey, he set her on the road.

“You have your life and your secret. It is the least I could do for the honor Alan showed. I only ask this: You must never set foot on a ship again. You must promise.”

“I promise,” she said, her voice flat. The Marshal removed the blindfold and remounted the carriage, which turned and departed in a cloud of dust.

She looked around. A village nestled nearby, a fishing village right on the coast. The sea would always be nearby to haunt her.

***

Grace the Widow, as she was known in Rowfus, wondered at how a pound of cod could cost more than a pound of beef in a coastal town. But the fish were off this season, apparently. Her tavern, the Nymph’s Child, would serve beef stew tomorrow, then. She packed the meat in her basket and returned home.

She took her time, walking along the docks. Rowfus was a poor excuse for a seaport. Most of the big cargo ships sailed on up the coast, where the large cities and roads essential for trade lay. Smaller ships stopped here for repairs and provision. A few others docked to take advantage of low port fees. The Marshallate kept a lighthouse and a small garrison of elder soldiers on the rocky edge of the land, ostensibly to dissuade pirates. A single road traveled up the hill, inland. It was a tired place, with a few rows of plank-board buildings scoured gray by wind and salt, and a few piers painted black with barnacles and slime. Most of the activity came from a thriving colony of fisherfolk who didn’t care if another ship docked here ever again. Them, and the gulls that wheeled and cried above their boats.

A new ship had arrived, anchored some distance out. She was one of the fast new galleons, with enough cannons to level Rowfus if she chose. Not that anyone outside the town would notice if Rowfus were leveled. The Marshallate garrison didn’t seem concerned by the ship’s presence. Grace didn’t recognize her.

Mainly, Grace was looking for Kate, to make sure the girl wasn’t wandering off with stars in her eyes when she should have been minding the tavern. Beautiful Kate, with her blond hair and lithe figure, and a spirit that carried her around town with a tilt to her chin. Proud, some folk said, and if Grace was proud of her daughter’s pride, then let her be doubly chastised for it. Kate scared her to death sometimes. Grace would come home one day and find the girl had flown off to an adventure or three. That thought weighed in her belly like iron.

After all, that was what Grace had done, and look where it brought her.

Her tavern, the Nymph’s Child, had a painted sign above the door that showed the figurehead of a sailing ship: a woman in a rippling gown, her dark hair streaming along the prow, who held an infant in her arms. An odd notion, some said. Grace told them that if ships were called “she,” then why shouldn’t they have children?

She came into the tavern through the back. From the kitchen, she heard voices. At first she thought Kate was begging stories from a patron as usual. Then she caught an anxious edge to Kate’s voice, and heard that the patron was asking most of the questions—about the Nymph, about Kate’s parents. About the story of the treasure.

Quietly, Grace edged into the room along the wall to have a look. She saw a ghost on the verge of harassing her daughter. He was a young sea captain, clean shaven, with a full head of dark hair. His clothing was good quality—wool coat and linen shirt—but weathered, well used. A tricorn hat sat on the table by an untouched glass of brandy.

The stranger looked up, over Kate’s shoulder, his attention caught. He smiled in recognition.

“Grace Lark. Well met,” said David May.

Sixteen years had treated him well. He’d filled out, grown muscles and a proud figure, weathered hands and a hard expression. He had bright, searching eyes. That much had stayed the same.

Grace wanted to tear him to pieces.

She stepped past Kate, dodged the table and lunged at him. Grabbing his collar, she shoved him out of the chair and slammed him against the wall. By God, the boy was six inches taller than her now. But she was still hard as steel, and still—in their memory at least—his superior officer.

“How dare you—how in bloody hell’s dungeon do you dare come in here asking about the treasure?” She wrapped his shirt and coat in her fists and dug them into his neck. “You know it. They all bloody well knew it. There was no treasure!” Her heart raced with the old memories.

“I know,” he said, his voice tense but his eyes steady. He didn’t struggle at all. “I know it, sir.”

“I should kill you. I should kill you for even standing here alive and well, you bastard.” But she let go. He stumbled, keeping his balance against the wall, never taking his eyes off her. His hand went to his belt and the sword sheathed there, but she turned her back on him. “Kate, get everyone out. We’re closed for the day.”

Patrons stared. Grace had broken up a fight or two in her time, but she’d never lost her temper. They seemed happy to leave when Kate asked them to.

Grace turned back to David, who donned a tired smile.

“Lark—your daughter. She looks like him. She looks like Captain Alan. The hair, the eyes—she has this look on her face like—”

Grace rubbed her brow, running her hand across her graying head. “I know. Don’t you think I know?”

When everyone had gone and Kate had barred the door, Grace invited David to sit. She went through a list of other tasks she could send Kate on. Then she thought better of it. The girl sat with them, fidgeting, questions obviously boiling on her lips.

“Why are you here?” Grace asked him.

“I need to know how you crossed the Iron Teeth.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Is that all? Well, Davy May.” She slapped the table in front of him, rattling the glass of brandy. “I need to know how you escaped the Marshal of Hellwarth.”

They stared at each other for a long time, silent, waiting to see who would break first and fill the pause. Sixteen years—he wasn’t a cabin boy anymore, and she wasn’t a pirate. They had to judge each other all over again.

“It’s Captain May,” he said at last.

She raised her brow. “The new ship in the harbor?”

“The Queen’s Heart,” he said.

“Very nice. Especially considering the last time I saw you was in chains in a prison yard. What did you do to be set free? Let the guards have a go at you?”

“The Marshal couldn’t hang a twelve-year-old boy any more than he could hang a pregnant woman. He put me on one of his own ships. He … reformed me.”

The Marshal of Hellwarth was a strict old man with the sense of honor of a long-lost age. Pirates he caught and hanged. Women and boys—could never be pirates, could they? How strange, what his mercy had saved.

“Mum?” Kate looked very solemn, lips pursed and brow furrowed, when she said, “Gregory Lark—Gregory Lark was my father.”

David’s eyes went a little wide, and he hid a smile with his hand. Grace—bloody hell, she was going to have to explain it all.

“No, Kate,” Grace said, equally solemn. “Gregory Lark was your mother, dressed as a man and fallen in with pirates.”

Kate took a long moment to turn this over in her mind. Then, as pieces dropped into place, she stared at Grace with open-mouthed wonder, like she might stare at a giant, or a dragon. Oh, the stars in her eyes had suddenly gotten very big, Grace thought with a sinking heart.

“You?” Kate said, her bottled excitement bursting under pressure at last. “You sailed on the Nymph? Grace Lark—Gregory Lark. You were first mate! First mate of the Nymph! You always told me women don’t go to sea, the superstitions of sailors won’t let women sail, and yet you—you never told me!”

“God, Kate. If it ever got out that anyone from the Nymph lived, people would beat down our door for word of the treasure. I didn’t tell anyone. Especially you. You’ve watched the boats come and go since you were a baby. I didn’t want you getting any more ideas than you already had.”

“What really happened? Did you do it?” Kate said, seemingly impervious to words of caution or explanation. She glanced sidelong at David, and her voice fell to a whisper. “Did you kill Captain Alan?”

Grace had heard the stories as well as Kate had—the stories about the Nymph were Kate’s favorites—and she’d kept her mouth safely shut all this time. The Nymph was a pirate ship, but her captain and crew loved adventure more than gold, and that was why they sailed the Strait of the Iron Teeth, a passage of jagged rock and treacherous shallows that were guarded by a dragon to boot, not for the treasure that lay at the other side but to say that they’d done it. In fact, when the crew did find treasure, it tore them apart: the crew accused Captain Alan of hording it; Alan buried it so that none would have it; the first mate, Gregory Lark, killed Alan, and then the crew killed Lark for revenge. There were a dozen versions, with more arising every year. Grace always told herself that Gregory Lark was someone else and people could say anything they liked about him, she didn’t care.

The moments passed and Grace remained silent. If she spoke, her voice would crack, and she would be finished. Kate had on a beseeching expression, so eager she nearly trembled. Just like Alan when he’d said, We can do it, Grace. We can sail the Iron Teeth.

Kate bit her lip and looked at David, and Grace looked at him as well. She nodded a little. He returned the nod. If he was willing to take on the task of telling Kate, let him have it.

“She didn’t kill him,” David said to the girl. “Far from it. Captain Alan was your father.”

Kate furrowed her brow and her gaze fell. She sat like that for a long time, with David and Grace watching her. Once or twice she acted like she might say one thing, then changed her mind, and finally said, “And he really was hanged at Hellwarth? He’s not going to come through the door, a shadow from a story, is he?”

“I watched him die,” he said softly. Grace looked away. She hadn’t had that privilege—or doom.

Kate twisted her fingers in her lap. “What was he really like? Do the stories tell any truth at all?”

“He was the best and bravest man I ever knew,” David said. “When I find myself in a fix, I ask, ‘What would Alan have done?’ and come out better for considering the answer. I knew who you were as soon as I saw you because you have his face and his sea-gray eyes.”

Her eyes were going red, now. Then, she smiled shyly. “Really?”

“On the soul of my ship, I swear it’s true.”

“Mum—do you miss him?”

“I do. Every day I do.” Sometimes she looked out to the ships and swore she saw the Nymph, sailed by Captain Alan, come to take her away.

“Mister Lark, sir. Ma’am—” David said, “I truly didn’t wish to disrupt your life here. You of all people deserve peace and quiet. But this is a matter of life and death. I must know how you sailed the Iron Teeth.”

Grace smiled crookedly. “Don’t you know? You were there.”

“You locked us all in the hold. That’s where Blount got the idea you’d hidden a treasure.”

The tale was famous:

The crew set the sails. A strong wind followed, and they moved fast. Alan was at the rudder, and when the crewmen realized where their course was headed—toward the rocky pinnacles reaching up from the ocean like clawed hands—they set up a cry. Was he mad? Did Alan mean to kill them all? Do you trust me? he’d said, a wild grin on his face. Most of them did, to the ends of the earth and beyond. But a few, Blount and others, threatened mutiny. That was when Lark appeared with a musket leveled at the lot of them, and four more stacked behind, loaded and ready. He ordered them all below decks and locked the door behind them. There’d be no mutiny on his watch. The crew, David among them, spent the entire journey arguing: Did they break free and mutiny, despite Lark and his muskets? Did they trust the captain and wait it out? Every shudder that rocked the hull, every roll they made over every wave, each man held his breath and prayed. The Nymph moved fast and sure, and six hours later, Lark opened the hold and the Teeth were behind them. Alan and Lark kept the secret of how they did it, and the stories that spread about a hidden treasure seemed credible.

Only Lark—Grace—still lived and knew the truth.

She said, “We never dropped anchor. We never landed—you could tell that, even locked in the hold.”

“That’s what we told Blount, but he sold us out anyway, didn’t he? He thought the dragon must have dropped a chest of gold on deck mid-flight because of some deal you made with it.”

“You see,” Grace said, leaning toward Kate. “Alan’s reputation was so fantastic, even among his own crew, they had him making deals with dragons.”

“Grace, please—”

“Why? Why is this a matter of life and death?”

“The Strait of the Iron Teeth is the shortest distance between Hellwarth and Elles. The Teeth are probably Hellwarth’s greatest defense against Elles’ warships.”

“They can always sail around, if they want war with Hellwarth.”

“Yes. But if a messenger sailed the Teeth, word would reach Hellwarth long before an enemy fleet arrived. We could prepare.”

Thoughtfully, Grace played with the collar of her shirt. “When Elles sends a fleet to take Hellwarth by surprise, it will be up to you to warn the Marshal. You’ve become quite the dutiful patriot.”

He blushed, looking for a moment like the boy who had stumbled onto the ship, wet behind the ears and eager to please. Alan had kept the boy close, protected him, taught him what he knew, turning it into a game so he would learn better. He’d been almost a son, like the best cabin boys were to the best captains. Alan had seemed to like having an almost-son.

Was that why he had seemed so pleased when she told him she was with child? Why he’d been so desperate that she live? What would he have thought of a daughter?

She continued, “You’re here under the Marshal’s orders. He told you that Gregory Lark still lived.”

“Sailing the Teeth was my idea. When I told him my plan, he said I should come find you.”

“Why should I help you? He killed Alan.”

“This would save many lives. If I can bring warning in time—”

She raised her hand, stopping him mid-breath. “You’ve turned into a noble young man, David. Alan would have been proud.”

Slouching over the table, David breathed a sigh heavy enough he might have been holding it for sixteen years. “All this time, I’ve felt like I’m betraying him, serving the Marshal. But—I owe him my life. That means something as well.”

“You survived. You stood by Alan as long as you could, and then you survived. That’s as he would have wanted it.” Live. That word, his voice, haunted her nightmares. She wondered what haunted David’s.

“Will you help me, sir? Will you tell me the secret?”

She laughed. “Can’t you guess? Don’t you know what made the Nymph different than every other ship? You and the Marshal are the only ones who know Alan’s and my secret, and you still don’t know?”

“What a riddle. What made the Nymph different? She was a ship of legend. Her captain was a pirate, but with a code of honor. He never sought treasure for its own sake—only enough to keep up his ship and pay off his crew. She sailed free, under no nation’s flag. She navigated the Teeth, she outran the Marshal until one of her own betrayed her. She was proud, beautiful, an honor to serve like no other ship has been for me since. All that made her different.”

It was Kate who said, “She had a woman on board.”

***

The wind cut through the strait like daggers, and the Nymph had it behind them. They raced to the Iron Teeth, too fast, too many sails unfurled, and the crew shouting in outrage. Even locked in the hold, the screams echoed topside.

Alan had grinned. “I feel bad, really I do. But it’s better this way.”

“Aye,” Lark had said with a sigh.

Alan kept tight hold of the wheel and steered them true.

The rocks towered, rough and dark, shining with damp. They cast wide swathes of shadows, so that the strait was always in twilight.

Then, the pinnacle of a tower of rock moved. The shadow spread, and two great wings made a canopy over the water. Some of the rock wasn’t rock, but scales, which sparkled when the light struck them. A snake-like neck stretched up to a dagger-shaped head, and wide jaws gaped open. The silver teeth inside were like the jagged strait itself. Both would happily swallow anything that crossed their paths. The Iron Teeth and the dragon were the same.

The Nymph’s captain and first mate gazed up at those teeth and felt not fear but wonder.

“Are you ready, Grace?” the captain called, and this time the first mate’s answer was joyous.

“Aye!”

She yanked her kerchief off her neck and pulled apart the buttons of her shirt.

“You’re beautiful!” Alan shouted over the wind.

“You’re a maniac!” she shouted back, laughing.

Running away from him, across the deck to the ship’s prow, she pulled the bandages off her chest, left them trailing on the wind and tangled in rigging.

The dragon groaned, a guttural sound that made the water tremble and pressed around the ship like a weight. The great, wicked head looked down on the Nymph. The wings flapped once, and the ship rocked back. Then the beast jumped to a lower perch, and he was in front of them, staring them down, and they were racing into his jaws.

Standing at the railing, leaning over the water, bare chested, breasts freed, Lark raised her arms to the dragon. Wind and sea spray lashed her.

When the beast sighed, hot breath washed over her. Its wings folded back, and its scaled eyelids drooped.

“A lovely vision,” the dragon said in a deep voice that sounded like crunching gravel. “Why don’t I see more of you? Why does your kind not sail?”

“I don’t know,” she’d said, taken aback by the question, because before the monster the usual reasons scattered like dust. “I really don’t know.”

The dragon let them pass.

He flew overhead, guiding them through the rocks and shoals. All the while Lark spoke to it, told stories and sang songs, though many of the songs he asked for were ancient, and she didn’t know them. When they’d cleared the last of the rocks, the dragon bade them farewell and returned to his lonely perch.

When Captain Alan released the crew, the Iron Teeth were behind them, and he and Mister Lark never revealed how they’d done the impossible.

***

David stared wide-eyed. This amused Grace—the solution was so simple he hadn’t seen it.

Grace nodded. “Putting the crew in the hold kept my secret while I talked to the dragon. Think what Blount would have done if he’d known a woman had been giving him orders all that time.”

“You talked to the dragon? Talked to it?”

“He can be soothed by the sound of a woman’s voice, and by the sight of her body. Seems he lost his mate some few hundred years ago and misses feminine company. He only wants a few words, a sweet voice to tell him how brave and strong he is. He’s really not a bad fellow, but ships in his territory make him ill-tempered. As for the rocks—if you keep to the right-hand way and have a steady hand at the wheel, you’ll pass them by.”

“That’s all?” David stood. “Grace—Mister Lark, sir. Will you come with me? Will you sail the Teeth one more time?”

She almost said yes before she could think to stop the words. That was her life. She’d left it involuntarily. Why not go back? Why not, indeed? Her lean body had grown soft and curved with years and weight. She’d never be able to carry the disguise now. And she had the tavern to run. That life was gone. She’d left it involuntarily, yes. But people always left their lives involuntarily, didn’t they?

“I can’t. I must return the Marshal’s honor in kind. I promised him I’d never set foot on a ship again.”

He nodded, not surprised by the answer. “Do you miss the sea?” he said.

“No. Thinking of sailing reminds me too much of Alan.”

Kate half-jumped from her chair. “I’ll go. Take me. I can learn to sail, I already know all the parts of a ship, I watch them come and go every day and I’ve always wanted to sail. You need a woman to pass through the Iron Teeth. Please take me.”

Grace nearly hit her. “Kate, sit down.”

She didn’t sit. Grace’s daughter glared back at her, rebellion in her eyes. Grace had known this day would come, when she would tell her daughter to do something—and Kate would realize Grace had no power over her. Damn Davy May a second time for bringing this on.

“Kate. Sit down,” Grace repeated. Kate sat. “Kate—you’re all I have left in the world. You’re the only reason I left Hellwarth alive.”

“If you tell me to stay, I will. But this is my chance. My only chance.”

David added his pleading gaze to hers. “The Queen’s Heart has room for a cabin boy, if you can advise her how to dress like one. I’ll guard her with my own life, as well as Captain Alan looked after me. She’ll be safe.”

Didn’t they see how simple the answer was for her? That there could only be one answer for her, and no amount of reasoned argument would change that?

“No,” she said. “Not on anyone’s life. Not for all the world’s wealth. Now, Captain May, this reunion has been pleasant enough, but get out of my tavern.”

He didn’t move right away, and Kate made a sound that might have been a stifled sob. Grace stood. She couldn’t beat David in a fight, not anymore. She could rely on her reputation, though. Her anger. She trusted that the captain of a ship like the Queen’s Heart wouldn’t start a fight here.

Finally, David nodded at her, touching his forehead in a salute as he replaced his hat on his head. Then, he left.

Kate looked like she might scream, as if one of the tantrums of old had returned. Her face flushed, her lips trembled. But she didn’t scream, she didn’t say anything, not even I hate you. She turned and fled to the kitchen.

“Kate!” Grace called after her, wanting to say a hundred things. Let me explain, let me give you all the reasons you shouldn’t go, I want you to have a better life than mine, and a better life isn’t at sea—but it was no good. The girl was off to her bed to have a good cry.

Over the years Grace had listened to a hundred stories that painted her as a villain, the traitorous first mate who shot his captain in the back, who ended the glorious voyages of the famous Nymph.

Only now, at this moment, had she ever felt like a villain.

***

At midnight, the only audible sound was the rush of waves running along the coast. They were regular, constant in form, but in detail they always changed. Some waves struck heavily, some lapped, some were large, some small. One could listen to the waves for a lifetime and never guess their patterns.

“Your eyes are bright as the moon on the waves,” Alan told her, when he’d first wooed her.

“You got that line from an untalented minstrel, didn’t you?” she’d said, smiling.

“Who am I to say whether he had talent? I passed him by in the marketplace; it was the only line I heard. Perhaps the next was better. But if I’d waited for the next, I’d have been late meeting you.”

She’d laughed, because he was so heartfelt, and it probably happened exactly like he said.

What would Alan say if he saw her now? He’d have hated what she’d become: soft, frightened, not a bit of adventure left in her. I’m only following orders, sir.

The moon shone on the waves this night. The Queen’s Heart was still anchored in the harbor.

Though Grace went to bed long after dark, she did not sleep, but listened to the waves instead, so that she also heard the shutters over Kate’s window open, heard a rustling and scraping as someone climbed out the window. The girl thought to avoid waking her by not using the door, but Grace knew all the tricks.

Still dressed, Grace rose from her bed and went out to the common room, then through the front door. She caught Kate sneaking around the side of the building. Hands on her hips, frowning, Grace blocked her daughter’s path.

Kate wore her cloak and hugged a satchel close to her chest. This wasn’t a stroll, this wasn’t just wanting a last look at the new galleon. This was fleeing. In her mind’s eye, Grace saw a little girl with gold hair, a round face, and wide eyes staring up at her, filled with guilt at some petty crime like breaking a clay jar or tracking mud through the kitchen.

But that wasn’t the Kate who stood before her now. Now, a young woman, lips tight with determination, looked her straight in the eye. When had she gotten to be so tall? Why hadn’t Grace noticed?

“You can’t stop me,” Kate said. “I’m going. I’ll fight you if I have to, even if you are Gregory Lark.”

Grace didn’t believe that name really held so much terror. It was a story, a fairy tale.

If she hadn’t had Kate, she wouldn’t have remembered what Alan looked like at all. And what would Alan have done at this moment? Let her go, or you’ll never have a chance to say goodbye.

“You’ll cut your hair and bandage your breasts,” Grace said. “You’ll learn to walk and speak like a boy. You can never forget for a moment that you’re playing the part of a boy. Do you understand?”

Quickly, bird-like, Kate nodded.

“The men who like boys—David will keep them off you. But you must learn how to look after yourself. Tell David he must teach you how to fight. I trust David, but no one else, and he might not always be there to protect you. Do you understand, Kate?”

“Yes, yes I do—” And suddenly she was crying, without a sound, tears wet on her cheeks. Grace opened her arms and the girl came to her, hugging her with all her strength.

“Come back to me safe, Kate,” Grace said, whispering, because her throat had closed and her own tears were falling. She had so much to tell Kate, so much more advice to give, but there wasn’t time, because the tide was turning and David was no doubt waiting at the pier. But she had time for one last piece of advice. One last, desperate plea. “And for God’s sake, don’t fall in love with your captain.”

© 2008 by Carrie Vaughn, LLC.
 Originally appeared in Fast Ships, Black Sails, edited by Ann & Jeff VanderMeer.
Reprinted by permission of the author.

“For God’s sake, yes. She’s just a girl.”

Duncan took the girl’s face in his hands, tilted her head back, pried apart her lips and had a look at her teeth. Her frightened gaze darted between him and her mother. “Doesn’t mean anything. There are whores younger than her.”

She was twelve or thirteen, small and thin for her age but healthy—good teeth, straight back. In a year or so, with a few good meals in her, she’d be a beauty with golden hair and clear eyes.

Her mother stood a few steps away, wringing her hands and trying to maintain a businesslike lack of expression. “I’ve heard men pay more for virgins.”

“You heard right,” Duncan said. “But you already agreed to my price. I’ll take her.” He tossed the pouch of silver at the woman. It landed at her feet, and she hurried to pick it up. Her husband was dead, and she had eight other children to feed.

He went to where he’d tied his horse to a fence post. “Get your cloak, girl, and come on.”

Barefoot, she stood in the dirt in front of the hovel and didn’t move. “I don’t have a cloak.”

“Eleanor, go on.” Her mother gestured, brushing her away like she was a wild dog.

She still didn’t move, so Duncan picked her up and set her at the front of his saddle. He mounted behind her, wheeled his horse around, and rode off without a backward glance. She didn’t struggle or cry at all, which worried him at first. Perhaps she was an idiot child.

Then she said, “What’s a whore?”

He considered how to answer. The less she knew about such things the better, so he said nothing.

He kept her steady with an arm across her shoulders, and she was limp in his grasp.

In three days they reached the wilds of Northumbria, plunging straight into a forest of twisted oak. What few local folk there were would not enter the place because they said it was haunted. Duncan made camp in a glade where a spring flowed clear. He set the girl on the ground and left her huddled in the crook formed by an immense protruding root. He’d bought a cloak for her, and boots.

Late that afternoon, just before dusk, he took her to a glen dipped in the shadow of a hill. He carried his longbow, a quiver of arrows with varnished shafts, and his sword. He set about building a blind, a crawl space shadowed with leaves and branches that allowed a view of the whole clearing. The girl watched him with her wide, blue eyes and slack, numb face.

He bade her sit on a grassy hillock. She began to tremble, clutching the edges of her cloak and hugging herself. For a moment he doubted. What was he doing, paying silver for a slip of flesh and then dragging the poor girl out here? The prize, remember the prize. This would work.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be over there. Sit quietly, and the beast will appear. When it does, calm it.”

“What beast?”

“You’ll see.”

He left her and went to his blind.

Wind shivered through the trees, sending autumn leaves raining. One landed on the girl’s cloak, and she brushed it off. Duncan held his bow with an arrow notched and watched all around the glen. Every whisper of leaves he took for footsteps.

Her fear passed with the time. She scratched at the dirt with a stick, played with the edges of her cloak. She started humming a country jig, a little off-tune. Over the next few days, Duncan kept the girl warm and fed, and she never complained.

After a week of sitting in the cold, the creature came.

It stepped out of the trees, out of the twilight mist, head low to the ground and nostrils quivering. A silver shadow in the form of a horse, seemingly made of mist itself. The long, spiral horn growing from its forehead reflected what little light remained in the world and seemed to glow.

The girl’s gasp carried all the way to Duncan’s blind. The unicorn’s head lifted, ears pricked forward hard, and he feared that she’d startle the thing away. But no, her scent was strong, and its instinct was powerful. Instead of cringing in fear, she got to her knees and reached toward it with both hands, whispering to it.

It leaned toward her, like a horse would to a bucket of grain. It made careful, silent steps, not even rustling the fallen leaves. Its thick mane fell forward, covering its neck. It huffed quick breaths at her, stretching forward to sniff at her fingers. The girl cupped her hands. The unicorn rested its muzzle on her palms and sighed.

Duncan shot his arrow, striking the creature’s neck.

It screamed, a piercing wail, and reared straight up like it might fly. Duncan shot again and hit the crook of its throat, where the head joined the neck. Twisting in mid-air, it tried to leap back to the shelter of the woods, crying with strained breaths. After one stride it fell, chest plowing into the earth, head and horn still raised. Groaning, it rolled to its side.

He didn’t know how much it would take to kill it. The stories were vague on that point. Heart racing, Duncan drew his sword and approached. The thing shuddered, sighed quietly, the sound of air leaving a billows. He sprang at it, driving his blade into its side, through its heart, but it didn’t move again. Dark stains ran from all three wounds, matting the hair of its mane and coat.

His hands were trembling. He’d done it. Bracing his foot against the unicorn’s ribs, Duncan pulled out the sword, stumbling back and dropping it. Its horn was a foot long. Worth a fortune. He took his hunting knife, and it occurred to him that no one would believe where the horn had come from if he didn’t take the whole head.

Belatedly, he looked at the girl.

She huddled on the ground, covering her head with her hands. Slowly, her face emerged. She stared at the dead unicorn, blood congealing on its side.

“You did well,” he said, attempting gentleness. His voice shook.

This was another part he had not thought to plan for—what would she do after? He expected sobbing. But she merely gathered her cloak around her and got to her feet. She seemed older, wrapped in the gloom of the forest, mist-glow turning her hair silver.

She stepped to the body, knelt by its head, and pressed her hand to its cheek. Quickly, she drew away. “It’s already cold.”

“It’s just a beast,” he said. “Just a hunt.”

He started cutting, and she moved out of the way.

As he cut the final strand of muscle joining the head to the neck, the body began to shrivel, drying up, turning to dust, blowing away piece by piece. The girl put her hands in it, clutching the ash-like powder and opening her empty hands as it faded to nothing.

“It was beautiful,” she said.

***

Eleanor gave a final tug on the cord that secured the bundle to the pack horse. The mass of it was awkward, wrapped tight in oilskin. A long, thin piece jutted out, lying flat along the horse’s flank. It was the head of their ninth unicorn.

She’d grown like a weed the last five years. Regular meals worked wonders. Duncan kept her fed, and she put on weight, developing healthy curves and roses in her cheeks. He bought a horse for her, along with the pack horse. They made quite the little company now, a world of change from when he stalked the woods alone.

She scratched the pack horse’s ear and went to kick dirt on the last embers of their campfire. “Do we ride far tonight?”

“Yes. I’d like to cross the border without guards watching. And—these woods are angry, I think.” It was spring, but the trees still looked like skeletons, black shapes against the sky, reaching for him. He’d made a habit of killing magic, old magic, and he found himself looking over his shoulder more and more these days. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course.” She said it sharply, but when he looked, she was smiling, watching him as she tightened her saddle’s girth.

Of course she’d be all right, living wild in the wood and traveling like a bandit as she had. He avoided civilization as much as possible, kept her away from towns with their taverns, from people who might say a corrupting word. She was still pure; the unicorns still came to her.

They left the road before they reached the border and cut overland, picking their way through the ruins of the old Roman wall. No one saw them, and they stopped before dawn to rest.

In two days they reached their destination, where a wealthy lowland chieftain bought the horn, then opened his hall for a feast in honor of the hunter. Duncan relented. They wouldn’t stay long.

Eleanor, wearing a simple gown of green wool, hair tied up in a braid, stood with him, untroubled by the great hall, the gold, the rich folk, and the stares. She had never been very excitable, but there was more to it than that. She was a creature of nature and didn’t know to be wary here. She stood calmly, chin lifted, meeting every gaze that came to rest on her, refusing to be cowed by the noble company. She only gave a nod to the chieftain himself. They all saw she was proud, haughty even, and a wild beauty showed through with that pride. How had she learned to carry herself so, this waif from the hovel?

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled.

He hadn’t trimmed his beard or combed his hair to appear before the chieftain. His clothes were clean at least, but they were still hunting clothes, leather breeches and jerkin. And he, who slew unicorns, owed them no obeisance.

Then he knew: She’d learned by watching him.

That evening, he allowed himself more ale than he usually drank, to help chase away the shadows lurking at the edges of his thoughts. Sitting at the high table with the chieftain’s men, he listened to conversation play around him. He only answered when someone spoke his name and woke him from his reflections.

“Duncan. The lord has given you a quarter of his wealth for that horn. You could live nobly on that.”

“I hunt again in the morning,” he said.

Laughing, the courtier said, “But why? You’re rich, aren’t you?” Several times over in fact, but he kept the money hidden. “You’ve a beautiful woman at your beck and call—”

Before Duncan could turn on the man to correct him of this notion, an older fellow with a white beard leaned over. “He doesn’t do it for the wealth. That’s what you don’t understand. He does it for the power, to be able to turn his nose up at lords.”

“And the girl?” the overloud courtier said. “Don’t tell me you’ve never even touched her.”

“You fool, of course he hasn’t,” said the older one. “She’s the bait.”

Across the hall, Eleanor was dancing with the chieftain’s youngest son, a handsome lad of twenty with far more charm than Duncan liked. She didn’t know the steps, and he was teaching her. She stumbled—Duncan had never in the last few years known her to stumble. The boy caught her waist, and she laughed. Then he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

Duncan set down his mug and climbed around the table.

He marched across the hall directly toward Eleanor and the boy, scattering the figures of the dance. The fiddler stopped playing, the drummer lost his beat, and the whole hall fell silent. Folk cleared a space for him.

Planting a hand on the young lord’s chest, Duncan shoved him away and stood between him and Eleanor. He didn’t say a word, only glared, and the boy backed into to the protection of the crowd.

Duncan put his hand on the back of Eleanor’s neck and turned her toward the door.

“Never even think of it,” he said, hissing into her ear.

“What are you—”

“If he gets what he wants from you, you become useless to me.”

She ducked out of his grasp. “It was only a kiss—”

“A kiss leads to other things.” He’d said too much already. How much longer would he be able to keep her? “Go to the stable. Get our horses ready. We ride out tonight.”

“Duncan, there’s no reason to ride out. We’ve a warm place to sleep tonight. A roof, for God’s sake.”

“We ride out tonight.”

So, wrapped in cloaks and huddled in their saddles against a cold drizzle, they spent the night on the road.

Eleanor rode behind him, and her silence bothered him. He kept looking over his shoulder to make sure she was still there.

“What did he say to you?” he said.

“Who?”

“That boy.”

“He told me I was pretty.”

“What else?”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“What else?”

She gave a long-suffering sigh, then let hoofbeats fill the silence before answering. “He asked me if I ever felt like I was betraying them. He could not believe that I would draw a creature of magic to me, then betray it.”

“Well? Is that how you feel?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I want to do this forever. I think I would like to marry someday.”

“What do you know about marriage?”

“It’s what men and women do, isn’t it?”

He was so very, very close to losing her. Perhaps he should just let her go.

“Men like that don’t marry girls like you, so you can stop thinking of it.”

“I didn’t say I’d like to marry him. Though—I’ve heard men pay more for virgins.”

He might have said a hundred things to that, but he refused to be taunted.

A couple dozen strides of silence later, Eleanor said sullenly, “You may own me, Duncan, but you’re not my father so don’t pretend to be.”

More hoofbeats, more silence, then Duncan said softly, “You earned your way free a long time ago, Eleanor.” He didn’t think she heard him.

***

Eleanor let her hair hang loose, draping in waves down her shoulders and back. She wore a blue gown the color of sky at twilight and went barefoot. As she matured, becoming more comfortable in her own skin, she attracted older unicorns, ones not so easily enticed, the ones with the longest horns.

They might wait for weeks before drawing one close. During that time Eleanor would wander through the woods, walking, singing, making her presence known. Duncan followed, moving softly and staying hidden. Once, he’d had to stay downwind of a unicorn who followed Eleanor for five days before finally revealing itself and coming to her hand.

He never struck until the unicorn touched her, thus losing its will to flee.

This time it took three days to lure the beast. Eleanor walked into a clearing, knelt, and picked flowers, humming to herself. The unicorn emerged from the trees behind her. She paused—perhaps she felt its breath on her neck—but she didn’t turn around. She kept humming, picking flowers until she had a small bouquet. Duncan crouched in the shelter of a thicket and waited.

The unicorn, a broad, muscular beast with a horn almost two feet long, stepped around her, sniffing her. She didn’t move, she was in its power—with its horn leveled at her, it could stab her at any moment. So she waited until it stopped before her, then slowly offered it her flowers. It reached and brushed them with its lips.

A cry, like the whinny of a horse sounded through a trumpet, rang through the forest. On the opposite side of the clearing from Duncan, a white shape hurdled the underbrush and thundered toward Eleanor and the unicorn. It snorted with each stride.

This creature, this second unicorn, was at least eighteen hands tall, a titan that shook the ground as it galloped. Its blazing horn must have been three feet long, the longest Duncan had ever seen.

Tossing its head, it raced at Eleanor’s unicorn and rammed it flank-to-flank, shoving it away from her. The newcomer screamed again, rearing at its fellow, which cried in answer and spun out of the way, tearing the soil with black hooves. The monster drove it off, and it raced into the forest.

The monster’s mane shook, white hair cascading over satin shoulders. As it turned to follow the other, it let fly a kick with all the power of those massive hindquarters.

Eleanor had backed away from the fight, but not out of range of those hooves. Struck, she flew back, lifted bodily and sent sprawling on the bracken.

“Eleanor!” Duncan burst from his hiding place just as the unicorn fled with the same rolls of thunder in which it had arrived.

She was curled on her side, coughing and gasping for breath. He left his longbow and sword behind and crouched by her, gingerly touching her arm and fearing how broken she might be.

“Eleanor, speak. Where are you hurt? Tell me.” He touched her face, ran his hand to her neck and felt a rapid pulse.

“I’m all right,” she said, wheezing, brushing his hands away and trying to sit up. “Lost my breath is all.”

His hand went to her side to help her up, and she cried out and flinched away. Her breathing started to come in panicked gasps.

“Sit back. Breathe slow. Good.” He helped her lay back against a tree and prodded her side. The pain came mostly in her ribs. Cracked, he wagered. She wasn’t coughing blood, she could feel all her limbs. She’d come away lucky.

He made camp there and fetched a bucket of water from a cold stream. He came to where she lay curled up, favoring her injury.

“Strip,” he said. “I’ll have to wrap those ribs.”

“What?”

“Take off your dress.”

She blushed, crossing her hands over her chest. Then, a half-smile dawning on her lips, she gave him a look that made him blush.

“Yes, sir,” she said and began unlacing her gown.

He pointedly did not stare at her breasts as he bandaged her torso. When had she gotten breasts? They weren’t much, just large enough to fill a man’s hand, and yet—he was not staring.

“What was that thing?” she asked, gritting her teeth as he pulled the cloth tight. “It didn’t even notice me.”

“A legend among legends. An old brute of a unicorn. Filled with rage and jaded to the scent of virgins.”

“Like you,” she said, sitting half-naked before him.

He tied off the bandage, giving it an extra tug that made her squeak.

“It’s been watching us for some time,” he said. “Perhaps—perhaps it is time I quit this game.”

He helped her settle by the fire to rest, and he cooked their supper. They ate in silence. He put away the dishes, saw to their horses, and brought back his bedroll.

Eleanor watched him across the fire.

“We could catch it,” she said.

“You don’t just catch a beast like that. It is a god among unicorns, and we’ve inspired its wrath.”

“You’re afraid.”

He grunted a denial and looked away. Not afraid—he’d spent more nights alone in wilderness most folk dared not travel in daylight than he had under roofs. He could buy any man, lord or commoner, that he chose. He made way for no one. He did not fear. But he was getting old, finding himself wishing for some of the roofs he had shunned. Perhaps that was nearly the same as fear.

Eleanor wouldn’t understand, young imp that she was. Her eyes were bright, her face clean of wrinkles of age and worry. Her time in the wild had made her luminous.

“I think I can tempt an old brute of a unicorn.”

“A beast like that sees nothing but its own fury.”

She moved to his side of the fire, wincing and pressing her hand to the bandage as she crawled. She sat close to him; they had not been so close since he carried her before him on his saddle.

She touched his face. Not pressing, she held her palm lightly against his cheek, just enough to brush the edge of his beard. She was trembling a little, unsure of the gesture. Her brow furrowed, her expression anxious and waiting. Then, she kissed him.

Her lips felt as soft and clean as she looked. Her breath brushed his cheek, sending warmth across his face, through all his blood.

He dared not move, lest he frighten the creature away.

When he did not react, she ran her hand up his cheek, tangled her fingers in his hair, and kissed him more firmly. She was clumsy, her nose jutting into his, her balance on her knees wavering.

He took her face in both his hands and taught her how to kiss properly.

He almost gave in, and she almost let him, but his hand went from her breast to clutch her bandaged side and she gasped and flinched away. Giggling, she curled up in his arms, head resting on his chest.

“See? I can tempt an old brute.”

He brushed his fingers through her fine hair, touching her as he went, ear, neck, shoulder.

“I never intended to make a whore of you,” he said softly.

She pulled away and looked at him. “You’ve done it from the first, using me to make your money, haven’t you?”

He chuckled sadly. She was right, after all. “You’ve become too worldly for this hunt.”

“Not yet. We have one more unicorn to catch.”

It would be best to leave it. But even if he never entered another forest for the rest of his days, that old beast would haunt him. That prize, that challenge, the three foot horn—that was how he should end his hunting days. And the time was now: Eleanor had reached the peak of her maidenhood, unsurpassed beauty, her innocence still intact but ready to burst, a rose at the height of her bloom. Perhaps the old beast wouldn’t be able to resist her. After all, five years of nothing but pure thoughts notwithstanding, only a cracked rib made him resist.

“Why do you want to do this?” he asked.

“The usual reasons: money, fame. Because it is the profession to which I was apprenticed and I have no choice.”

“Then I set you free. Here and now, I have no hold over you, and moreover I will give you half of what we have earned these past years. I will not ask you to act as bait for the old one. So, will you leave?”

“No. I will hunt the old one.”

“Why?”

She hesitated before answering, pursing her lips and looking around at trees and sky. “The power,” she said finally. “The power I have over them. A girl like me—there’s no other power I could have, is there?”

Heart pounding, he thought, There is another power you have.

***

They waited for Eleanor’s ribs to heal before searching out the old one. They left their horses behind, took a minimum of gear, and traveled deeper into the northern woods than they ever had before.

Tracking unicorns, it was no good looking for hoof prints or broken twigs for signs of their passing. They left no prints. One searched for other evidence: a pool of water that should have been brackish, but was clear and fresh; a patch of grass greener than the foliage around it, where one of them had slept. Then, catching unicorns was more like fishing than hunting. Once a place they frequented was found, there was nothing to do but set the bait and wait.

They caught a glimpse of it after they had been looking for a week. Eleanor—watched by Duncan, who perched in a tree a hundred paces away—sat alone in a sunny clearing, brushing her hair. The beast, a fierce buck as large and thick as an oak tree, moved toward her, silently for all its bulk. Its thick mane and tail rippled, its coat shone like silver.

Duncan watched it pass to the edge of the clearing, but it did not enter. It circled, watching Eleanor. She looked up only when she heard its breath snort. When she did, it turned and galloped away.

Eleanor didn’t eat much at supper that evening. “I think I’m afraid of it,” she said, not meeting Duncan’s gaze. “It sees into my heart, sees I’m proud. I can’t fool it.”

“Do you want to leave off?”

“No. Fear will pass.”

The next day, clouds covered the sky. The day after, a drizzle set in, a long cold rain promising to last for days. They wrapped their cloaks tight around them and found sheltered hillocks in which to spend the nights. Eleanor said she caught glimpses of the old one twice, watching them through trees from far away.

“Who’s hunting who, I wonder?” Duncan said, frowning.

A week later, at twilight, when the rain-damp sky was a breath away from falling to darkness, Eleanor stopped Duncan with a hand on his chest.

“Let me go on ahead,” she said. “Circle ’round to that thicket, watch from there.”

“You think he’s there?”

“I think he’s waiting for me.”

He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers before striking off.

A clearing lay where she had pointed him. He saw nothing, but crouched hidden, bow strung and arrow ready, and waited.

A moment later, Eleanor approached. She had left behind her pack, cloak, and boots, and unbound her hair. Her linen dress was quickly becoming soaked, clinging to her until every part of her slim frame showed: the line of her waist, slope of hip, the matched curves of her breasts. Her hair, darker when wet, dripped down her shoulders and back, framing her face, slick with rain.

Wandering into the glade, she seemed like a creature of mist, a nymph from a tale, one of the watery maids who pulled men under lakes to their deaths. Being soaking wet did not detract from her grace; she stepped lightly, lifting her skirt away from her feet, and stood tall. She looked up at the sky and smiled.

A snorting breath, loud as a roar, preceded the old unicorn’s charge into the clearing. He ran at her, legs pumping, head lowered so its horn aimed for her heart. Duncan almost let fly his arrow, knowing he could never hit it as it ran but fearing for Eleanor.

She stood her ground. She didn’t move. Just smiled a little and waited.

A mere stride away from her, the unicorn slid to an abrupt stop, hind end gathered underneath it, front legs lifted, and shook its head, brandishing the horn.

Eleanor crouched, lowering herself on bent knees, and raised her arm to the beast, offering her hand. She showed herself submissive, the lesser of the two.

The unicorn shook his head, his obsidian eyes flashing. He seemed torn, straining forward even as he resisted, as if pressing against a barrier. The beast stepped back, pranced in place, then spun away. He did not flee, but trotted a circle around her. She circled with him, her hand outstretched, fingers splayed, waiting for a chance when he might brush against them. While he came close—drifting in tighter and tighter circles, then suddenly leaping out to the edge of the clearing again, like a child playing around a bonfire—he never let her touch him.

All the while, Eleanor smiled a soft, wondering smile.

It was a game, this teasing and dodging. They must have played it for an hour. Sometimes the unicorn stopped and seemed ready to step toward her, head bowed, tamed. Then he reared and jumped away, and Eleanor laughed. At this, his ears pricked forward, his neck arced, and he seemed pleased to hear her.

Duncan watched from the thicket, his cold hands gripping his bow and notched arrow, his face flushed.

The unicorn moved toward her, hot breaths coming in clouds of mist. His back stood a good deal taller than Eleanor; his head towered above her. He came close enough for his breath to wash over her lifted face, but he still would not cross the last stride to her arms.

So she played the tease, and backed away from him.

“I’m pure as starlight, dear one. Touch me.”

She pulled at the laces closing the neck of her gown. She separated the front edges, enough to show breast but not nipple. She stretched her arms back, so that at any moment the gown might fall off her shoulders completely, but it didn’t, and she shook back her hair. The unicorn stretched his neck toward her, but she stayed just out of reach.

Duncan bit his lip. He dared not shift, though he was hard, pressed painfully against his breeches. Blood pounded through his crotch. He willed his hands to remain steady.

Her feet and legs were caked with mud, the hem of her gown black with the stuff, even though she held it off the ground. She was wet as a drowned kitten, but smiling and shining, moving a slow dance like she was born to this damp world—as innocent as the rain. Rain which gave life, and which flooded and drowned. This, he thought, was why men paid more for virgins.

The old unicorn was also aroused.

She had him then. She got to her knees, as she had done instinctively that first time, and offered him her cupped hands. With deliberate steps he came to her, lowered his head until his whiskers brushed her fingers, and licked her palms with a thick pink tongue.

Duncan loosed his arrow.

Pierced through the throat, the unicorn screamed. He reared, becoming a tower of a beast, as tall as some of the trees. Duncan jumped from his blind and shot again and again. One arrow hit his chest, another his shoulder, but still the beast kept to his feet. Duncan thought the monster would turn and run, and he would have to track him until he dropped. But the unicorn stayed, kicking and rearing, pawing over and over again the ground where Eleanor had been.

She’d ducked away, crouching at the edge of the clearing; Duncan saw enough to know she was safe. He got one more shot away before the unicorn charged him. He drew his sword and managed a slice at him as he passed. The edge nicked his chest, drawing a little blood, but the unicorn didn’t slow. He turned on his haunches, throwing a rain of mud behind him, and attacked. Neck arched, horn aimed, the unicorn ran at him. Duncan stumbled back and raised his sword to block.

He couldn’t hold his own against the sheer force of the beast’s movement. The unicorn pressed forward, his body a battering ram with his horn at the fore, and Duncan could only rush to escape, making token parries with his sword.

The unicorn got beside him and with a swipe of his head knocked Duncan over. He sprawled in the mud, and as he got to his knees the unicorn charged again, striking him as he turned away. The blow wrenched his shoulder and spun him around. Setting his will, he got to his feet and looked for the next attack—the unicorn was coming at him again, making a running start, ready to impale him on that prized, impossible horn.

He opened his hands—his sword was gone. He’d lost his bow as well.

He waited until the last moment to dodge, to keep the unicorn from swerving to stab him anyway, and again the beast’s bulk shoved him over. With the wind knocked out of him, he was slower to rise this time. He heard the thunder of hot breaths coming closer.

Eleanor screamed. “Here I am! It’s me you want!” She stood in the middle of the clearing, arms at her sides.

The unicorn stopped in a stride and turned to Eleanor, his betrayer. With a satisfied snort, he trotted at her, neck arced, horn ready.

“Eleanor, no,” Duncan would have said, if he’d had the breath for it.

She got to her knees—putting herself too low for the beast to stab her comfortably. He’d have had to bring his nose nearly to his chest. So he had to crush her with his hooves. Duncan stumbled in the mud, hoping to get to her in time.

The unicorn reared, preparing to bring all his weight and anger down on Eleanor.

In a heartbeat, she stepped underneath him and raised Duncan’s sword, which she’d hidden beside her.

She held it in place underneath his heart, and he came down on the point. For a split second he hung there, and it looked like she was holding him up with the sword. Blood rained down on her from the wound. Then he fell straight onto her, and they crumpled together.

Finally, too late, Duncan found his feet. The unicorn was dead. Its body lay on its side, a mound in the center of the clearing.

“Eleanor,” he panted with each breath. He approached its back, his heart pounding in his throat. Blood streamed from the body, filling in puddles and footprints. He saw no movement, heard no cries.

He went around the great unicorn’s head, twisted up from its neck, its horn half-buried in mud.

And there was Eleanor, streaked with blood and dirt, extricating herself from the unicorn’s bent legs.

“Eleanor!” He slid into the mud beside her and touched her hair, her shoulders, her arms. He helped her wipe the grime from her face. “Are you hurt? Are you well?”

“I got away. I’m only a little bruised. But you—” She did the same, pawing him all over for signs of injury. His twisted shoulder hurt to move, but he could move it. All his limbs worked. He could draw breath. He would live. They both sighed.

Smiling, she took his hands.

“No more unicorns, Duncan. If you want me, I’m yours. And if you won’t have me, I’ll leave and find someone who will.”

He swallowed her with kisses until she laughed. Then he took her, there in the rain and the mud, against the carcass of the unicorn.

© 2003 by Carrie Vaughn.
Originally appeared in Realms of Fantasy.
Reprinted by permission of the author.