Skandar and the Unicorn Thief: Chapters 4–7

Unicorns were absolutely, categorically not allowed on the Mainland.

The creature watched curiously, making ominous growling noises in his throat.

“I’ll get on first, and then I’ll lift you up behind me, okay? Just mind you keep your legs tucked in; Swan’s partial to a kneecap every now and then.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve got to get out of here. It wasn’t exactly a sanctioned visit to the Mainland.”

“The Island is trying to downplay it like always, but something’s different in the Weaver. Something’s changed. Coming out into the open like that? Risking being caught? I don’t know what the Weaver’s planning, but I’m sure of one thing. Now that the Weaver has the most powerful unicorn in the world—the Chaos Cup winner—nobody’s safe.”

Skandar stifled a cry of horror. He wanted to help them, but he knew he was no match for even one of those silver-masked riders.

Her hair swung over her shoulder as she turned away, and Skandar spotted the gold flames of her element pin twinkling on her yellow lapel.

Skandar tried to keep his voice casual. “I tend to blend in with the crowd.” It wasn’t a lie exactly.

Some were crying, some looked angry, and others kept their heads bent in disappointment as they trudged the length of the line.

Aaron sauntered to the granite door and pushed his palm against it.

His black hair was peppered with gray, and he was so thin that his cheekbones dominated his sallow face.

“Could you repeat that? Quickly—we haven’t got all day.” His voice was clipped and harsh.

His textbooks hadn’t said anything about the inside of the Hatchery; he’d assumed it would all be straightforward.

The cool stone of the tunnel was gone, replaced by a cavernous space lit by hundreds of torches blazing in their brackets and a fire roaring in a deep pit in the rock floor.

Amber fixed him with a patronizing smile. “And why are you wearing that ragged old scarf? Is it some odd Mainland tradition? I’d get rid of it if I were you. I’m sure it’s super important to you to fit in with all of us Islanders. Top tip—we don’t usually wear scarves indoors.”

“As Hatchery president, my main job is to oversee the proper execution of the Hatchery exam, the presentation of candidates to the Hatchery door, and the hatching itself—along with these esteemed members of my team.”

And, of course, there is the noble and perilous endeavor of delivering unhatched eggs to the Wilderness before they hatch into wild unicorns at sunset.

And, of course, there is the noble and perilous endeavor of delivering unhatched eggs to the Wilderness before they hatch into wild unicorns at sunset.

Unicorns, even when bonded, are fundamentally bloodthirsty creatures with a preference for violence and destruction. They are ancient noble beasts, and you must earn their respect, even as their destined rider.

He followed the president behind another boy who had straight black hair and brown glasses a shade lighter than his tawny skin.

“Don’t dally, don’t dally! Gather round me,” the president said quietly, as though if he spoke any louder, the eggs might hatch all at once.

Skandar was beginning to panic, and the president’s dire warnings weren’t helping.

It was a relief to put the egg down. Adrenaline had made it seem lighter than it actually was, but now Skandar could feel his arms aching.

The shrieking was constant now: somewhere between a horse’s whinny, an eagle’s cry, and a human scream.

The unicorn lay on its belly, four legs splayed out on the floor of the hatching cell, its ribs moving quickly up and down, the fine black hair on its body shining with sweat and slime.

An ebony mane crowned its neck, the strands of hair tangled from the effort of freeing itself.

Skandar moved toward the unicorn to try to get the hoodie from underneath it, in the vain hope that he might be able to put out the fires.

He felt a balloon of happiness swell in his chest and a searing pain in his right hand.

He fumbled with the packet, his newly healed wound still tender.

Skandar continued to stroke the unicorn, who nickered softly, sounding a bit more like a horse.

Skandar took another tentative step into the hatching cell.

“Come again?” Bobby said, just as Skandar asked, “What’s a spirit wielder’s blaze?”
“That white mark,” Mitchell said, exasperated.

“That’s not necessarily true. It might just be a mark.”

“Now that we’ve all established how bad the fifth element is and that the Weaver is the greatest threat facing the Island and Mainland since forever, can we please report this spirit wielder to a sentinel?”

Red, Falcon, and Scoundrel were skittering about and shrieking all over the hatching cell, while Silver Blade stood imperiously in a corner and roared if the others got too close.

Her eyes welled with tears every time she even looked at Silver Blade.
“Are you all right?” Skandar ventured.

The sound was deafening, like the brakes of a thousand trains.
Over the din, Mitchell was shouting, “Just go! Move! We’re in the wrong cell anyway. If we get going, they won’t notice!”

Riders yelped in pain as they found themselves caught in the elemental crossfire, clinging to lead ropes in desperation as their unicorns reared and bucked and swiped their horns through the air.

“You complete and utter idiot, Skandar!”

“Why are they like that? The rotting flesh, the smell, the”—something squelched under his sneaker—“slime?”