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worn.
"Yes, this is the one," the scribe announced. He placed it next to the books of magic, thumbed through it
quickly, and stopped. "Yes, right here." He paused, reading. "It happened hundreds of years ago very
close to the time of the valley's creation. The fairies dispatched a large gathering of unicorns into our
valley from out of the mists. They sent them here for a very particular reason. It seems that they were
concerned about a growing disbelief in the magic in many of the outlying worlds worlds such as your
own, High Lord " The scribe extended him a disapproving look. " and they wished to give some
sign to those worlds that the magic did indeed still exist." He paused, frowning as he squinted at the aged
writing. "I think I have that right. It is difficult to read this clearly because the language is very old."
"Perhaps it is your eyes that are old," Questor suggested, none too kindly, and reached for the book.
Abernathy snatched it away irritably. "My eyes are twice what yours are, wizard!" he snapped. He
cleared his throat and went on. "It appears, High Lord, that the fairies sent the unicorns as proof to the
disbelieving worlds that the magic was still real. One unicorn was to travel to each of these worlds out of
Landover through the time passages." He paused again, read some more, then closed the book with a
bang. "But, of course, that never happened."
Ben frowned. "Why not?"
"Because all the unicorns disappeared, High Lord. They were never seen again by anyone."
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"Disappeared?"
"I remember that story," Questor declared. "Frankly, it always struck me as a rather strange story."
Ben frowned some more. "So the fairies send a raft of white unicorns into Landover and they all
disappear. And that's the last of the unicorns except for a black unicorn that may or may not be real and
appears only occasionally from God knows where. Except now we also have the missing books of magic
that contain nothing about magic at all just a lot of drawings of unicorns and some half-burned empty
pages."
"One lock broken and one still sealed," Questor added.
"Nothing about Meeks," Ben mused.
"Nothing about changing dogs back into men," Abernathy huffed.
They stared at one another in silence. The books lay open on the table before them two of magic that
didn't seem very magical at all and one of history that told them nothing historically useful. Ben's
uneasiness grew. The further they followed the threads of these dreams, the more confused matters got.
His dream had been a lie;
Questor's had been the truth. The source of their dreams had been different...
Apparently.
But maybe not. He was not sure of anything just now. It was growing late. The trip back had been a
long one, he was tired, and the fatigue dulled his thinking. There wasn't enough time, and he didn't have
enough energy to reason it all through tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough. When morning came,
they would search out Willow; once they found her, they would pursue this matter of the dreams until
they understood exactly what was going on.
"Lock up the books, Questor. We're going to bed," he declared.
There was muttered agreement from all quarters. Bunion went off to the kitchen to clean up and eat.
Abernathy went with him, carrying the aged history. Questor scooped up the books of magic and carted
them out wordlessly.
Ben watched them go, left alone in the shadows and half-light. He almost wished he had asked them to
stay while he forced himself to work on this puzzle a bit longer.
But that was foolish. It would all keep.
Reluctantly, he trudged off to sleep.
...And Nightmares
Later, Ben Holiday would remember how ill-conceived his advice to himself had been that night. He
would remember the words clearly. It will all keep. Tomorrow will be soon enough. He would remember
those words as he ate them. He would reflect bitterly on the undiscerning reassurance he had allowed
himself to take from them.
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That was the beauty of hindsight, of course. It was always twenty-twenty.
The trouble began almost immediately. He retired directly to his bed chamber from the study, slipped
into a nightshirt, and crawled beneath the covers. He was exhausted, but sleep would not come. He was
keyed up from the day's events, and the mystery of the dreams played about like a cornered rat in his
mind. He chased the rat, but he couldn't catch it. It was a shadow that eluded him effortlessly. He could
see its outline, but could not grasp its form.
Its eyes glowed crimson in the darkness.
He blinked and shoved himself up on his elbows. The rune stone that Willow had given him shone fire
red on the nightstand where he had placed it. He blinked, aware suddenly that he must have been nearly
asleep when the light had brought him back. The color of the stone meant danger threatened just as it
must have threatened during the whole of the trip back.
But where was the danger to be found, damn it?
He rose and walked about the room like a creature stalking prey. There was nothing there. His clothes
still lay draped over the chair where he had thrown them; his duffel still occupied its spot on the floor by
the dressing room. He stood in the center of the room for a moment and let the warmth of the castle's life
reach out to him. Sterling Silver responded with a deep, inner glow that wrapped him from head to foot.
She was undisturbed.
He frowned. Perhaps the stone was mistaken.
It was distracting, in any case, so he covered it with a towel and climbed back into his bed. He waited a
moment, closed his eyes, opened them again, closed them a second time. The darkness cloaked him and
did not tease. The rat was gone. Questions and answers mixed and faded in the night. He began to drift.
He might have dreamed for a time, then. There were images of unicorns, some black, some white, and
the slender, timeless faces of the fairies. There were images of his friends, both past and present, and of
the dreams he had envisioned for his kingdom and his life. They ran through his subconscious, and their
fluid motion lulled him as the rolling of an endless sea.
Then a curious fire flared to sudden life within his mind, disrupting the flow. Hands reached from out of
nothingness, and fingers clasped the chain about his neck his hands, his fingers. What were they
doing?
And suddenly there was an image of Meeks!
The image appeared from out of a black mist, the wizard a tall, skeletal form cloaked in gunmetal blue
with a face as rough and hard as raw iron. He loomed over Ben as if he were death come for its latest
victim, one sleeve empty, the other a black claw that reached down, down...
Ben jerked awake with a start, kicking back the bedclothes, sweeping blindly at the dark with one hand.
He blinked and squinted. A candle's flame lit one corner of the room, a solitary pinprick of white-gold
against a haze of crimson fire given off by Willow's rune stone as it blazed in frantic warning on the
nightstand, the towel that had covered it gone. Ben could feel the presence of the danger it signaled. His
breath came in sharp gasps, and it was as if a giant hand pressed down upon his chest. He fought to push
it off, but his muscles would not obey. His body seemed locked in place.
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Something moved in the dark something huge.
Ben tried to shout, but the sound was no more than a whisper.
A figure materialized, scarlet light covering it like blood. The figure stood there and, in a voice that
sounded of nails on slate, whispered, "We meet again, Mr. Holiday."
It was Meeks.
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