France, Montségur, January 2, 1766
A light rain, little more than determined mist, fell upon the thickly forested ridges that heralded the Pyrenees further south. Their jagged summits rose like teeth, gnawing on the gray and rumbling sky as if to anger the clouds into greater storms. Such weather made it difficult for Chevalier Valentin Deforêt to study the tracks left in the earth, but he persisted. Drops of rain beaded and slid away from his hooded oilskin cloak, buttoned about his well-traveled black knee boots, dark breeches, and black double-breasted coat. Beneath it all, hanging from a chain about his neck, was the cross of Malta, hidden beneath his undershirt. He had entered the province of Languedoc nearly a week ago on foot, and the men and women there bore no love for the Catholic knights, even now.
But his business wasn't with any of them.
Beneath an oak tree he spotted something. The soil was bared there, the substrate scraped away roughly. Here he could see the clear imprint of hooves, split like those of a deer. The depth, roughness, and positioning, skirting here, then there, along with the paw prints of wolves, made it clear that a hunt had passed by here.
The chevalier closed his eyes, crouched down in the center of the scraped earth, and listened. The patter of the rain and the creaking of the trees was background noise and easily ignored. His head tilted slightly, turning to the right, until at last he came to know the unobtrusive sound that had caught his attention.
Flies.
His eyes, as green as the forest around him, opened, and he rose to his feet without a sound. Every step forward made the buzzing louder, until he came to the corpse of a wolf. The beast was utterly broken, trampled and gored in the chest. He bent over the body, studying the diameter of the wound and judged it to be slightly less than two fingers wide. Nudging the creature's back leg with his boot, the beast's limb was warm and not yet stiff with rigor mortis. It had been killed recently.
The tracks led up a rise, towards a limestone cliff face several stories tall. The ground had changed from soil to rock and dust, and for quite a while he wondered where the chase had led. By chance he happened upon a small trail, overrun with weeds, that snaked up along the rise to the north of the cliff. As he scaled it, he could see the ruins of a castle fortress, long since abandoned by men.
He remembered tales, then, of an inquisition sent to this part of France. Heretics had lived in these mountains and valleys, and the church had sent her forces there to put an end to it. That had been centuries ago, but even so, the ruins, shrouded in mist, seemed alive and full of menace. The chevalier shuddered, for once unsure whether to proceed. Perhaps the hunt had avoided this place as well. Perhaps it had skirted the mount and headed off south into the woods again.
But the slain and trampled body of a wolf, halfway up the summit path, made his heart sink. No, he was going the right way. He had to go on.
Now he was on full alert, his green eyes wide, his step silent and pausing every once in a while to let him listen: nothing but the fall of rain and the moan of the wind. Even so, he reached down with his gloved hand and unsheathed his rapier, an elegant weapon made of steel with a handle of spiraling ivory. The leather of his glove creaked as he squeezed the grip, the weapon held beside his leg, ready to be flicked up into action at a moment's notice.
He cautiously approached the ruin, following the path to the crumbling walls that had once been the reason for the castle's name - Montségur. But secure they no longer were, reduced to dust from the huge stones hurled by enemy trebuchets. The ruin he waded through now was a husk of the fortress built over the original site, put their by the conquering forces. Time had not been kind to the victors, either. The chevalier had to carefully choose his steps so as not to trip over the debris littering the outer yard.
As he navigated the pale stone, he could see traces of blood, and here and there tufts of gray fur. Another wolf's corpse lay against the inside of the wall, its skull bashed in by the quarry's savage kick. Every so often, bloody hoof prints could be seen on the stone, dry enough to preserve the mark from the rain, given the protection from the higher walls of the keep. An archway led into the main courtyard, and he passed beneath it, remaining in its cover as he gazed within. Beyond was a large open space, some fifty feet across and one hundred feet wide, and the archway stood right at the halfway point. Large holes in the stone wall one story up suggested that massive timbers once stretched across the gap to support the upper floors, and the stairs leading up along the opposite side may have provided a way to ascend to them. The foundation stones of stable sheds clustered amid the weeds near the arch, nearly invisible.
A passing shadow of cloud, pregnant with rain, made things more difficult to see, but a scintillation of lightning lit up the interior for just a moment, and it was enough. Bodies of wolves lay slain about the grounds, visible now, lying where they'd fallen in the weeds of the ruin.
And in the center of the desolation rested a unicorn, its head bowed, legs folded beneath it. The chevalier had mistaken it for a piece of rubble at first, its coat dirty and its body still.
A horrific explosion of thunder broke the chevalier from his reverie, and the unicorn's head lifted immediately, the creature on its hooves in a second. He held his breath, studying the beast – its coat was mired with blood and dirt, and it bore many wounds on its neck and sides. The spiral of its horn, projecting at least three hand-spans from its forehead, was stained red with blood, and its impossibly fine legs and hooves were caked with filth. Its slitted nostrils opened and closed, its body strained with anxiety from the noise for a few more seconds. And then it relaxed, snorting and shaking its head, as if angry at itself.
The man smiled, and then, without meaning to, chuckled softly. That was a mistake. The unicorn's ears flicked towards the archway, and again it was on alert, tense and watchful. The archway was the only way in or out, and it seemed to know that. He silently cursed himself then stepped out into the courtyard.
“I have been looking for you,” he announced in his clearest French, trying to keep his rapier unobtrusive without sheathing it. If the creature charged, that weapon might be the only thing that could save him.
For a moment the unicorn folded its ears back, flicking its leonine tail in agitation. And then it saw something that made it snort with rage, its breath misting from its nostrils like smoke. Before the chevalier had time to truly prepare, the beast bolted towards him, head lowered, the point of its horn aimed at his heart. He only just had time to bring his rapier up, but the creature's horn knocked it out of his hand with a toss of its head, sending the weapon to careen of into the weeds and rocks with an echoing clang.
He’d never seen a unicorn move this fast, and he'd seen his fair share. All within seconds it crashed its folded forelegs against his chest and knocked him roughly onto his back. He gasped, then coughed as it knelt on his sternum, the weight of its slight but dense body pinning him as the tip of its horn plunged towards his neck. The chevalier grit his teeth, expecting pain, but through his nearly closed eyes he saw that the beast hadn't been aiming for his flesh at all, but the chain about his neck.
When it lifted its head, the cross he wore slid out from beneath his clothing, glinting in the wan light filtering down through the storm clouds. The metal piece hung from the unicorn's bloodied horn and it narrowed its silver eyes. “Why won't you leave us alone?” the beast hissed, then tossed its head to the side, tearing the chain and throwing the cross away.
Given the filth on the creature's body, Valentin hadn't suspected the unicorn to be a mare, but her voice confirmed it. And it confirmed something else – she was speaking in Occitan, the dialect common in Languedoc, and for which the province had been named. He understood the words well enough but he had no confidence in speaking it.
He needed to think fast. Clearly, the unicorns of Languedoc bore the same hatred of Catholics as the human beings there did. And he, being a Knight of Malta, was perhaps as reprehensible a symbol of the church's power as any. “I'm not here as a Christian,” he gasped in French, gritting his teeth.
“No?” she demanded, tilting her head and menacing the point of her horn only inches from his right eye. Clearly she understood his French, though kept speaking her native tongue for the same reason he did.
Summing up his courage, he said, “I am here as one of the People. And we are calling upon you to help us.”
The unicorn blinked with confusion, then snorted, shaking her head and getting back to her hooves. Released from his bondage, Valentin coughed and rolled onto his side, desperate to breathe. Meanwhile, the mare paced over the weed-choked stones, her tail flicking. “Now. You call upon me now. Now you come!” The chevalier painfully rose to his feet, bracing a hand on the stonewall as she came around to him again, her back at the level of his bicep, her eyes at the same height as his own. “Where were you?! Where were you centuries ago? Where were the People when my family needed you?!”
Her anguished voice rang through the ruins, and he lowered his head in shame. She wasn't wrong. The People here, the unicorns of the western Pyrenees, had been abandoned, left to share the same fate as the humans they had sworn to protect. In Languedoc, their protected people had been the Cathars, and the inquisition had spared no one – not a man, woman, or child, be they Christian or Cathar. Orders had come from on high to 'Kill everyone of them and let God sort them out.'
“I am the last,” she said miserably, her head lowering, ears folding back. “When I die, the People of Languedoc will be no more.”
There was a period of silence, and he could only hear the fall of the rain as it grew heavier. The drops began to wash out her coat and horn, rinsing the dirt away to show her whiteness once again. Only then could he see that she was beautiful, wild though she was. Unlike the People of the north, she was slender like a racing hound, the white fur feathering about her hooves thicker and trailing halfway up the backs of her legs. Her mane, too, was fuller and longer, and her ears were slender, the tips pointed inward like an Arabian horse, crude though the comparison might have been.
He took a deep breath to pull himself from his reverie, and pushed back his hood. Beneath it, his long, white hair was gathered at his nape by a black ribbon, leaving the slightly pointed tips of his ears visible. Out in the wild, he hadn't bothered to apply the makeup to his forehead, and a silver mark, a slender, eight-pointed star, gleamed out from his fair skin just beneath his hairline. “I'm sorry,” he breathed, meeting her eyes. “I'm sorry we didn't help you.”
The mare studied his features, folding her ears back. “You are no thin-blooded lord...” she murmured, shivering. “You are one of the Changed.”
He nodded, regarding her quietly. Like her, his breathing was silent, his manner still and watchful. The transformation, carried out long ago, hadn't robbed him of his grace nor his elegance. The same sleek, otherworldly lines in her face could be found in his, of the human variation. His skin was pale, his jaw perpetually free of stubble, and his cheekbones high. His eyes, dark green, reflected nothing and gave no shine, just as hers did not. They were pools that soaked in light and kept it jealously, remembering everything.
“There is nothing here for you. And the People need you,” he urged, remaining where he was while she paced by the archway, to and fro.
“The People have always served a ruler. Whom do they serve, now?” she demanded.
Valentin cleared his throat. “We serve his majesty, King Louis the Fifteenth of France.”
Her ears folded back and her eyes widened, and finally her pacing stopped. “The Fifteenth? There have been so many Capetians?”
Valentin smiled a little, and spread his gloved hands. “A great deal has happened since the Inquisition came here. The line of Bourbon sits on the throne now, and we, those who protected the forests of the Bourbonnaise, still serve. We have recruited from the other provinces for centuries; all of France is our domain now, for us to protect in their name.”
The mare looked at him suspiciously. “And this king, this Louis of Bourbon, is he a Catholic king?”
The chevalier nodded. “He is.”
“Then I will not serve him. Find someone else,” she sniffed, walking past Valentin to head through the archway towards the outer wall.
He tugged his hood back up and snorted softly, his elegant lips pulled into a frustrated line. “You are one of the People!” he protested, striding over to where his rapier had fallen and plucking it from the stones.
Well practiced at walking the ruins, the unicorn's steps were easy and precise as she made for the path down the mount. “Not according to you.”
The chevalier wiped down his weapon quickly and sheathed it, moving quickly to catch up. “I did not make that decision!” he protested, slashing the air with his right hand. “It was wrong to leave you. Your family should have been given warning at least.”
She snorted derisively, not looking at him. “And what message would you have sent?” she asked, incredulous. “Most worthy unicorns of Languedoc – the Inquisition comes to murder your lord and his subjects. Disregard the loyalty that makes you fit to be one of the People, and flee.” The mare turned her head to look at him sidelong, her eyes narrowed. “Is that what you mean?”
Valentin scowled. “The lords of the Languedoc seem to have persisted well enough.”
Her eyes rolled at that. “They were replaced by Dominican savages. You know nothing of history.”
He took a moment to think, then gestured to her. “Your family persisted.”
At this the mare lowered her head. “We were many, once. Some of us protected the Good Men in caves and deep in the hidden places. And there we waited, while those living here, on the mount, and in other places, chose to stay and fight. The People who stayed with them were slain. They were our very best. Those of us who were left... we have slowly lessened in number over time. The new Dominican lords made great sport in hunting us down. It amused them.”
Valentin nodded. He'd heard of the great hunts of the unicorns, but hadn't guessed that such things had been so thorough as to nearly eradicate the People from an entire province. “You survived.”
The mare nodded grimly. “Their hunting has been poor of late, given the sickness that has been killing peasants off and on through the years. Wolves, you see, feed upon the dead and make the forests dangerous. It is so dangerous that the lords don't hunt as widely as they used to, for fear of catching the pestilence or being devoured. So I lingered in those places, fighting beasts and watching as the Good People, those who had hidden away, died in agony, from plague or poverty.” She snorted, shaking her head, as if to dislodge the blackness that had settled into her thoughts. The two continued down the path for ten minutes in silence, until, at last, she admitted in great shame, “I cannot help them.”
Valentin stopped, understanding her despair. “What is your name?” he asked gently.
When he paused, the unicorn took another step, then came to a halt. Her head lifted, and she shifted to the side to better regard him, as if strongly debating to trust him even that much. “Isabel DeSelva”
The chevalier smiled, comforted at least that the People of Languedoc still used the typical surname of all unicorns, no matter the language: Servant of the Forest. He bowed graciously. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame Isabel DeSelva, one of the People, and beloved. I am Valentin DeForêt.”
The unicorn smiled a little, and despite having had no one to greet in quite some time, she bowed elegantly, one foreleg bent, the other extended, head bowed, horn down. “A pleasure to meet you, Sénher Valentin DeForet.” When she got back to her hooves, she gave him a slightly insecure look, as if afraid she hadn't quite executed the greeting correctly. Valentin's pleasure was assurance enough that she had, and Isabel flicked her ears, looking down at the thickly-forested hills towards the bottom of the path. “If I go with you... I shall be changed, will I not?”
He nodded. “It is not permanent. It will take some getting used to, of course, but you may enjoy it.” His voice was even, the lies undetectable. She would never be able to go back, not once changed. He himself had stopped being a unicorn long ago, his grace extinguished. In the back of his mind it pleased him to know that she was the last, and with her power willingly sacrificed in exchange for mortality, the People would be at an end. The Church had decreed magic was a sin, and surely if he eradicated it he would be granted a place in heaven by His side.
Isabel only gave him a suspicious look, then sighed. “I have been called upon by the People, and so must I answer,” she recited. Bowing her head, she intoned “My strength is yours, my cunning is yours, and my horn is yours, until I am released.”
Valentin unsheathed his rapier, touched it to his mark, and gently crossed the blade with her spire. “Your service is accepted, Madame DeSelva. I name you Chevalier, and welcome you to the League of Ivory.”