Page 44 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

The Winged Unicorns

The moon was rising as they came in sight of Winged Cove beneath Argen Castle, where the winged unicorns were known to bathe. She could see three dozen at the shore in the distance, their horns glinting in the starlight, eating samphire at the water’s edge.

A small fishing boat came skimming past in the dark. It was unlit, with no visible nets or lines, and the shadowy figures did not glance in their direction.

Sudden fear gripped Anya. “Quick!” she said. “Douse our boat lights.”

“It’s rocky water,” said Gallia. “Dangerous, without light.”

“Do it anyway.”

They waited on the dark expanse of ocean until the fishing boat was out of sight. Then slowly, guided by the sharp eyes of the snake head, they maneuvered through the dark waters and docked on the sand.

The unicorns scattered as they came ashore; a chaos of gold wings and high hoarse cries. But Christopher put the sphinx tooth in his mouth and let out a whinny; and slowly they returned, stamping their hooves and pawing at the sandy foreshore, keeping their distance.

Unicorns do not speak, in general, through audible sound: they communicate by body, by breath, and by expression. But there are a small number of vocalizations: whinnies, cries, murmurs. They have meaning, though none that can be easily translated.

Christopher let out another sound: it came out a whicker, low and guttural.

One unicorn bucked in astonishment and trotted closer. The whole herd twisted their white and silver necks to stare.

“What did you say?” Anya asked Christopher. “Because it sounded like you have a chest infection.”

“I tried to explain what we wanted. I don’t know if it worked.”

The unicorn responded with a great sweep of its head and a low call.

“It’s saying yes,” said Christopher. They would carry the young people on their backs.

“And do they understand?” said Anya. “That you’re going to the forest? And I’m going to the castle? And you mustn’t be seen, they know that? They have to fly high, up in the clouds?”

“I hope so. Their language is mostly instinct, I think: it’s not speech like we know it.”

“We’ll have to risk it. Quick,” said Anya. Gallia and Koo landed on Christopher’s shoulders. Even Koo, so tiny and adoring, seemed to understand the seriousness of what they were doing, and he refrained from nipping Christopher’s ear.

Christopher approached the unicorn, but it objected to the chimaera.

It could not come, the unicorn told Christopher.

But then the chimaera turned each face, proud and uneasy and entreating, to the unicorn, and the unicorn gave a great exasperated neigh and allowed it.

The chimaera clambered inelegantly onto Christopher’s back, and from there to the unicorn’s.

“We’re ready,” Christopher said to Anya.

“And, Jacques,” said Anya. “Are you ready?”

Jacques drew himself up to his full height, which was about three inches.

“I have never, in my long life, been more ready.” And he dipped his small head to Anya’s hand. “We might perhaps call my book The Dragon Who Was Permitted, Despite His Failed Fire, to Play His Part. ”

The chimaera was confused, and each one of its faces showed it. “But where is he going?”

“We’ve explained,” said Christopher, “what it is that Jacques has to do.”

“But he won’t be able to protect himself!

” said the lion head. The young yellow eyes were angry.

“You said that Claude Argen is a killer of dragons, and yet you send him straight into the castle? You should not ask him to do it without his fire! They could cut him down out of the sky with a swipe of the sword! They could catch him in their hands, like a bird, like a bat!”

“They don’t know that,” said Jacques. “I may not have fire, but I have my ferocious reputation.”

And the small dragon looked so valiant and so proud and so palpably afraid that Anya wanted to catch him and hold him close, gentle him against her heart. But of course she did not, because it would have been the worst insult she could have offered.

Instead, Anya curtsied: the curtsy that had been drilled into her since her first toddling steps, required every time she had been in the presence of the king.

This, though, was different. One hand flew up like a bird, and one foot swept behind her, and Princess Anya Argen, Duchess of the Silver Mountains, Countess of the Winged Forests, swept to the ground in tribute to a tiny dragon.

It is the gesture with which fealty is given, or gratitude offered, or honor paid. It’s almost always misused: used to signal unearned obeisance to the born rich, the born powerful. It was not misused, in that moment, on that day.

Jacques said nothing. He looked at her, and at Christopher, long and hard, and then he took off and flew, tiny teeth bared, toward the castle.

Christopher, his hand on the unicorn’s flank, paused before he mounted. “Anya—you can still change your mind. You know that, right? It’s not too late.”

“I know.” And she smiled at him. “But I have to.”

“I think you’ll find, actually, that it is too late,” said a voice from the shadows beneath the cliffs. “It’s too late for both of you.”