The horse snorted and took a few steps towards her. Now she could see it better. Well enough to notice, in addition to its uncharacteristic coat colour, the strange peculiarities in its build: the small head, the extremely slender neck, the very thin pasterns and the long, thick tail. The horse stood and looked at her, holding its muzzle in profile. Ciri let out a quiet sigh.
A horn, at least two spans long, protruded from the horse’s domed forehead.
An impossible impossibility, thought Ciri, coming to her senses and gathering her thoughts. There are no unicorns in the world; they’ve died out. There wasn’t even a unicorn in the witcher’s tome in Kaer Morhen! I’ve only read about them in The Book of Myths in the temple . . . Oh, and there was an illustration of a unicorn in that Physiologus I looked through in Mr Giancardi’s bank . . . But the unicorn in that illustration was more like a goat than a horse. It had shaggy fetlocks and a goat’s beard, and its horn must have been two ells long . . .
She was astonished that she could remember everything so well; incidents that seemed to have happened hundreds of years before. Suddenly her head spun and pain twisted her insides. She groaned and curled up in a ball. The unicorn snorted and took a step towards her, then stopped and raised its head high. Ciri suddenly recalled what the books had said about unicorns.
‘Please come closer . . .’ she croaked, trying to sit up. ‘You may, because I am . . .’
The unicorn snorted, leapt backwards and galloped away, waving its tail vigorously. But after a moment it stopped, tossed its head, pawed the ground with a hoof and whinnied loudly.
‘That’s not true!’ she whined in despair. ‘Jarre only kissed me once and that doesn’t count! Come back!’
The effort of speaking blurred her vision and she slumped down onto the rock. When she finally managed to raise her head, the unicorn was once more close by. Looking at her inquisitively, it lowered its head and snorted softly.
‘Don’t be afraid of me . . .’ she whispered. ‘You don’t have to . . . You can see I’m dying . . .’
The unicorn neighed, shaking its head. Ciri fainted.
When she awoke again she was alone. Aching, stiff, thirsty, hungry, and all alone. The unicorn had been a mirage, an illusion, a dream. And had vanished like a dream. She understood that, accepted it, but still felt regret and despair as though the creature really had existed, had been with her and had abandoned her. Just like everyone had abandoned her.
She tried to stand but could not. She rested her face on the rocks. Very slowly, she reached to one side and felt the hilt of her dagger.
Blood is a liquid. I have to drink.
She heard the clatter of hooves and a snorting.
‘You’ve come back . . .’ she whispered, raising her head. ‘Have you really come back?’
The unicorn snorted loudly. She saw its hooves, close by. Right beside her. They were wet. They were literally dripping with water.
Hope gave her strength, filled her with euphoria. The unicorn led and Ciri followed him, still not certain if she was in a dream. When exhaustion overcame her she fell to all fours. And then crawled.
The unicorn led her among some rocks to a shallow ravine with a sandy bottom. Ciri used the last of her strength to crawl, but she kept going. Because the sand was wet.
The unicorn stopped above a hollow which was visible in the sand, whinnied and pawed powerfully with his hoof; once, twice, three times. She understood. She crawled closer, helping him. She burrowed, breaking her fingernails, digging, pushing the sand aside. She may have sobbed as she did so, but she wasn’t certain. When a muddy liquid appeared at the bottom of the hollow, she pressed her mouth to it at once, lapping up the water muddy with sand, so voraciously that the liquid disappeared. It took immense effort for Ciri to control herself. She used the dagger to dig deeper, then sat up and waited. She felt the sand crunching between her teeth and trembled with impatience, but waited until the hollow filled with water again. And then she drank. She drank long.
The third time, she let the water settle somewhat and then drank about four sand-free, sludgy mouthfuls. And then she remembered the unicorn.
‘You must be thirsty too, little horse,’ she said. ‘But you can’t drink mud. No horse ever drank mud.’
The unicorn neighed.
Ciri deepened the hollow, reinforcing the sides with stones.
‘Wait, little horse. Let it settle a little . . .’
‘Little Horse’ snorted, stamped his hooves and turned his head away.
‘Don’t be cross. Drink.’
The unicorn cautiously brought its muzzle towards the water.
‘Drink, Little Horse. It isn’t a dream. It’s real water.’