'There now,' the sentry said to his companion with satisfaction, 'years it's been since I've sung that, but I can still put it to the tune.'
The other centaur answered dubiously, 'It rubs against the tune, some places. Are the words right? I wouldn't know, it being new to me.'
'New?' the first one questioned. 'New? Why, that's the oldest song I know. It was old when our folk fled to the wood, in the time — what's the name? When the seas shook and rocks charged downhill like wild beasts — »
'Cataclysm,' the other said.
'Cataclysm,' the singer said carefully. 'Right. And that's when we were pledged to guard this place. The Forestmaster, she had no living guard then, her own guards being dead and a lot of traitors.'
'Traitors? Why?' the other asked.
The stag held his breath, thinking quietly, 'Let them not remember. Let it be lost in time. If I know, and if she knows — and if the king knows — that is more than enough.'
The first centaur slapped his own bristly side.
'Why? The song tells why. Let me see if I can put more
of it in mind. Somewhat about the stag serving the unicorn -
He sang more hesitantly:
He served her long, he served her well,
He served her, whole and part
Until one night in shadow glade
He told her all his heart.
The other said firmly, 'If this song turns filthy, I'll hear none of it.'
'No, no. She turns him down. 'She did not laugh — ' No, that's not it. 'She told him no' — I have the matter of it there, but not the music.'
The centaur guards moved off on their rounds. The stag remained, then sang softly, to himself:
She did not mock, she did not laugh,
But softly told him nay;
He did not grieve, but chose to leave
And plotted to betray.
He sought out then king peris's men;
His words were cold and blunt,
'Oh, sentry hosts, desert your posts:
I offer you a hunt.'
The stag stopped and said bitterly, 'Ill-rhymed, ill metered common trash. The song about my leading Huma is doubtless long gone, but this wretched lyric — ' His own ears pricked up at the rancor in his voice, and he bounded after the riding company.
He watched them look up at the rock and stare in awe at the Forestmaster. The stag, remembering his own first meeting with the Forestmaster, nursed his dark heart and said nothing as the unicorn met the companions, fed them, advised them.
Finally they were away, born aloft by pegasi. The stag looked at the ridiculous bipeds, particularly the dwarf, and felt contempt for the vileness of the winged horses' servitude. (Cloven-hooved animals feel naturally superior to those with unsplit hooves: the horses, the centaurs, even the pegasi.) 'How typical,' the stag said to himself, 'that they would degrade themselves in that obedience, as close to the stars as they are.'
Even after a long and often painful history, the stag was quite sensitive of his honor.
He entered the glade and called, as much command as request: 'Master.'
'I am here.' The unicorn had returned to the rock above the glade.
Forestmaster and stag stood poised, as though pausing before re-entering an old ritual. Each knew what the other would say.
Still they looked, as though they could not help themselves. The stag stood proud and erect, as though posing for a statue. Every hard muscle and taut sinew, every sharp line of limb and deadly point of antler, was etched in shadows. As with all shadows in Darken Wood, they seemed deep and full of death.
The Forestmaster herself seemed all light, as though the curse that held the Wood could never touch her. Her mane shone and half-floated, and the arch and curve of her neck seemed to draw all the way down her flanks and stop only at the ground. Only her eyes were dark, and those not the tainted shadows of Darken Wood but the liquid blackness of a wild thing's eyes, pure and powerful nature.
The stag spoke first. 'I have served you this night.'
'I know.'
'Did I not serve you well?'
'You did.'
'Have I not always served you well?'
'You have often served me well'
The stag seemed not to notice the distinction. 'And I have asked little in return.'
'It was service freely given, gladly accepted.' She stared down at him, her horn pointing into the night. 'You have more to ask now.'
'No. More to offer.'
'It is the same thing.'
That nearly silenced him. Finally, however, he went on:
'I offer my love. I give it freely, generously; since there is none like me, a gift without parallel.' 'I know.'
After a silence, the stag finished angrily, 'Yet you refuse.'
'I must.' The Forestmaster broke the feeling of ritual by saying, 'Humans say of my kind that only a virgin may catch me.'
'It is an old legend. That is not why you refuse me.' 'It is old, and it is exactly why.' She spoke less firmly, more sadly. 'And like most old legends, it is twisted and half true. It is not the humans who must be chaste. To be who I am, to serve whom I must — »
'Enough,' the stag said harshly. 'Noble vows aside, you have refused my love.'
The Forestmaster stared into his death-laden, proud eyes and closed her own. 'I have.'
'Why?' The word came out hard and sharp, as fresh and painful as it had been the first time it was spoken. 'Why, when I have told you my own weakness and admitted that I love you?' For a moment the stag's proud pose was gone, and he looked almost alive in his hurt and desire.
The Forestmaster said quietly, 'Because I must.'
The stag had regained his poise. 'Because you choose. That choice is not without consequence.'
'For you? For myself?'
'For both. How do you dare refuse me?' He tried to sound dignified, arrogant. His voice barely shook.
'I have refused others.'
'None like me. There are none like me.'
'And that, you feel, obliges me to yield the needs of a world to you. Go then.' She added, 'But know I never wished you to.'
He snorted, derisive even in a deer. 'Naturally not. Service without debt is more pleasant than solitude.'
As the Forestmaster watched him stride off, she murmured, 'Anything is more pleasant than solitude.' He did not hear her.
'One thing more.' He turned back to her, and she bent her head to listen. 'You said something about destiny to the strangers.'
She nodded, her mane rippling. 'I said it to the warrior, though I was thinking of the knight. 'We do not mourn the loss of those who die fulfilling their destinies.'»
'Coldly put. Whom do you mourn? Those who die unfulfilled? Those with no destinies at all?'
