“I have never shown anyone this before,” said Elise. “Not even my father.”
“How did you—”
“My grandfather’s sister,” Elise walked over to the largest of the unicorn drawings and held her hand up, a few inches from the paint. “She showed me when I was very young. This is our legacy. But it belongs to the women. The daughters of the blood, as you say.”
“Was she a hunter?” asked Gitta. “I mean, like me?”
“She was married at fourteen to a man who beat her to death by the time she was forty,” Elise replied.
“I am sorry.” The nun clutched at her cross.
“It was a bad marriage.” Elise shrugged. “And it was not her choice. We never have a choice, you see, Gitta. Not in our family. The best we can hope for is that our husbands are harmless. They can care for us or not, but gentle indifference is preferable to devoted mistreatment.”
Gitta stared at her, her face drained of color. “Elise, your fiancé—”
“I know,” Elise said softly. “You think I’m a fool, and maybe I am ignorant, but I’m not stupid. I know my fiancé is a cad whose love is fleeting, at best, and that his father sees me only as chattel. I know my cousin wishes me dead. And I know that I must cast my lot with one or the other. I have chosen life and the de Veyracs. You, who may go where you please and are answerable only to God, please do not judge me. My dog—my little Bisou—died tonight, of injuries inflicted by my cousin on a whim. I have only this cave to call my own.”
The words fell into the ancient dust at their feet, and Gitta did not speak. For she had been guilty of judging this girl, of thinking her beauty and her softness meant that her life was just as sunny. She had not looked close enough at the gilt to see that the shine hid the bars of Elise’s cage.
“Thank you,” she said at last, and fumbled in the shadows for Elise’s hand. “Thank you for showing this to me.”
They stood in silence, their hands joined, and stared at the unicorns on the wall.
“You wish to save your unicorn,” said Elise. “I wish this as well. Enyo should not die like Bisou. My cousin has spilled enough blood. We have several hours until the hunt. Let’s form a plan.”
Gita nodded. Elise sounded very determined, but her hand trembled hard against Gitta’s, like a heavy bow held for far too long.
Now Gitta knew why Elise had been so quick to draw the unicorn to her side. The girl had never been trained as a unicorn hunter, but she knew the taste of the hunter’s God-given magic. It was marked onto the very earth where she’d walked every day of her life. The lines on the walls were made with unicorn blood—their power reaching out through the ages to the two girls who stood in the chamber and plotted in whispers to prevent more blood from being spilled. Now Gitta knew who Elise was, beneath the powder and the stays and the springtime-colored silks. She was a warrior, just like her. She was a sister-at-arms, if not in vows, and Gitta would help her in any way she could, as any woman in the Order would step forward for the sake of another.
Before the dawn broke through the trees, Gitta released Enyo into the forest. She crouched low over the unicorn and whispered words of reassurance and love into her aged ears. Not this time, my dear one. Not this time.
Enyo disappeared into the darkness. Gitta turned and started hiking back to the tree where Elise and the hunters would meet for the ritual. The forest smelled wild today, as full of magic as Elise’s painted caves. She carried her knife and bow, but neither helped her when she was set upon by five armed men.
They bound her head and foot and stuffed a rag in her mouth to muffle her screams as they dragged her deep into the forest.
“He said to keep her until after the ceremony,” one said.
“Did he say what we could do then?” said another.
Gitta closed her eyes and reached out to Enyo in her mind. There was no response from the old zhi —she was either too far to hear, or she heard another call. Elise’s perhaps. Had the hunt begun? Was Gitta too late?
“Is this one as good with a sword as they say?” a man said above her.
“Dunno. But good enough for Dufosset to want her out of his way.”
She begged for the unicorn to save her. She prayed to God to protect His devoted daughter. She called upon every scrap of miracle or magic she’d ever known.
The reply came from the very heart of the woods.
Elise de Commarque, the last daughter of her line, led a procession to the tree where Gitta had told her to wait. The aristocrats behind her carried old weapons and sang snatches of even older songs about unicorn hunts. The mood was merry and light. This was the start of a party. A wedding party.
When they arrived at the tree, Elise sat down at the base, and the hunters dispersed among the brush at the edge of the clearing, lying in wait as the maiden called the unicorn like all the stories said. Many minutes passed until the woods settled around them again, and Elise felt as if it was time.
She wore her finest gown, which was getting stained by wet leaves. Her softest slippers were already a mess of mud. Her neatly powdered hair was keeping her from smelling the woods. And the stares of the men arrayed around her, bearing spears and bows and knives trained upon the spot where she sat, was breaking her concentration.
She peered up through the leaves, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gitta. The hunter had said if Elise could not call Enyo, she’d step in and do it herself. But Gitta was truly hidden among the leaves, no doubt trying to make the experience as authentic as possible for the aristocrats who’d come to partake in a traditional unicorn hunt.
Elise took as deep a breath as she could beneath her stays. She could do this. She must.
Enyo! Her mind cried. Come to me now!
But there was nothing. No hint of magic flooding through her system, no flash of wilderness, of rain and rot and stone and fire. Everything was perfume and dye, stitches and stays, poetry and prattle, lyrics and lies.
Elise’s hands slipped to the earth, and she stabbed her fingers into loamy moss.
And then, it was as if every man in the clearing inhaled at once. Elise opened her eyes, and Enyo was there by her side. Her clouded orbs peered deep into Elise’s, and she nudged her head softly beneath the crook of Elise’s arm.
“Enyo,” Elise whispered. “You’re here.” She stroked the unicorn’s mane, for once not caring about the dirt or the tangles. Enyo was warm, and real, and alive. The unicorn’s heart beat softly against Elise’s side. Breath from her nostrils warmed Elise’s arm. Elise traced each bump and twist of the creature’s long horn, then scratched at the base. Enyo sighed in pleasure.
“Are you ready?” she whispered. She drew from her pocket a wooden blade. “Play Dead.”
The unicorn let out a cry and slumped against her. An instant later, an arrow flew from the woods and slammed Elise into the tree. She gasped, but could not find breath to scream. The arrow was embedded in her shoulder. Pain shot through her arm and chest, pain such as Elise had never known. The unicorn started in her arms.
“Gitta,” she whispered weakly. Who had shot that arrow? Why wasn’t Gitta jumping down from the tree to help her?
Adolphe leaped out from behind a bush and came running. The unicorn had ceased its feigned death throes and was licking her face. Tears streamed from her eyes as she struggled to breathe. Adolphe drew near, and she hugged the unicorn to herself, surprised she even had the strength.
“Stop, Adolphe,” she said, as if she had a voice in the matter. He mustn’t kill the unicorn. Elise had promised Gitta.
But Adolphe did not stop. In fact, he drew out a long, silver knife. And then she almost laughed.