Skandar and the Unicorn Thief: Chapters 8–11

The Eyrie was a fortified forest: the trees had armor. Or that was what it looked like from the ground, as Skandar and Scoundrel made their way through the dark warren of trunks.

The treehouses had multiple levels built upward into the high canopy in higgledy-piggledy towers. Some were stacked eight stories high, others stretched so far back into the treeline that it was impossible to see where they started and ended.

The view of the Island from the treehouses must have stretched for miles—the Eyrie’s hill-home was the highest point Skandar could see, the trees perched on the crest like guardians.

“I’m going to be showing you to the stables so you and your little unicorns can rest before sunset. Follow me, Hatchlings!”
“Hatchlings?” Bobby asked indignantly.
“That’s what we call riders in their first year at the Eyrie.”

“Second-years are Nestlings, third are Fledglings, fourth are Rookies, and fifth-years—that’s me—are Predators, or Preds for short.”

The silver unicorn looked very affronted by the invasion of his personal space.

They’d reached a line of stable doors that were wide open, beds of straw set out inside. Each had an iron water trough and a feed bucket full to the brim with grisly-looking meat.

He didn’t know how cracks in the ground could possibly “ignite”—but however it happened, “boom!” didn’t sound very subtle.

Part of him still hoped it wasn’t true—that there was no such thing as the spirit element—but something about the concern in Flo’s face and the grim resolve in Mitchell’s as the four of them had separated had made his heart sink.

Moments later, Aspen McGrath marched into the clearing in a golden cloak embroidered with blue thread, like rivers running through gilded fields.

Skandar wondered if the Commodore would usually ride into the Eyrie on a unicorn, if she should have been sitting proudly astride New-Age Frost—the unicorn the Weaver had stolen.

Officials lowered a metal platform from a tree to Skandar’s right and Aspen stepped deftly onto it, not even putting out a hand for balance as it was hoisted higher.

Many of us have become complacent in the fifteen years since the Weaver bonded to a wild unicorn and cut short twenty-four innocent lives. Since the deaths of those unicorns, the Weaver has hidden away in the Wilderness like a villain in a fairy story, hovering on the edge of myth and reality.

Aspen slammed her fist against the metal cable holding up the platform, the sound reverberating through the clearing.

“It is because I want you new riders to remember that in time, with training, you will have power beyond your wildest dreams. You are privileged to hold at the end of your ropes the most fearsome beasts this world has ever known, creatures that can bend the very elements to their will. You share in that power, and all that I ask of you is that you use that power for good.”

Just as they’d planned, there was immediate and absolute pandemonium. Hatchling unicorns around the fault lines blasted elements into the dark clearing—sparks and smoke and debris swirling—as their riders pulled them in all directions, desperately trying to run away from the threat of the Weaver.

Falcon’s Wrath was calm and collected stepping onto the air line, the onslaught of forked lightning and gale-force winds barely making her blink.

But the smile dropped from his face when he saw the welts up and down her bare forearms.
“Was that Silver Blade?” he whispered, horrified.
“Burned me, didn’t he? The monster.”

Then, with a flourish, he produced a map from inside his cloak.

Skandar noticed a makeshift sign fixed to the outside of a stable door. SCOUNDREL’S LUCK, it read, with a scribbled water symbol underneath.

“Keep your voice down!” Skandar hissed, scaring Scoundrel, who walloped him with one of his feathery wings.

Like all the other Hatchling stables, the makeshift sign stating the unicorn’s name and elemental symbol had now been replaced with an engraved brass plaque.

The fire training ground was on one side, cut into the slope of the Eyrie’s mound. Skandar noticed its lightly singed red pavilion.

Instructor Anderson was already there, sitting astride his unicorn, Desert Firebird. The young unicorns looked like toys compared to the dark bay giant.

Scoundrel’s wings stretched out and back again in his anxiety, the sinewy muscles and feathers whacking painfully into Skandar’s knees.

At the other end of the now nonexistent line, Skandar saw Old Starlight break ranks and gallop across to the red pavilion at the opposite side of the training ground—his rider, Mariam, clung to her unicorn’s neck for dear life as water gushed from Starlight’s horn.

“Shut up!” Mitchell called back, although his response was slightly undermined as Red farted, loud and long, and kicked two flaming hooves back to light it.

Desert Firebird’s hooves glowed like hot coals, tendrils of smoke rising from the grass, and Instructor Anderson’s palm glowed bright red to match.

Skandar was struck by the smell of the strong magic—a mixture of smoldering bonfires, freshly struck matches, and lightly burnt toast.

Skandar could have cried with relief. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and gingerly uncurled his fingers. The white glow had, thankfully, disappeared.

“It is your job as a rider to learn magic—offensive and defensive—and to share that knowledge through the bond. Think of your unicorn as an intelligent power source. And by summoning elements along the bond and into your palm, together you have the power to control the elements completely. As you progress, your unicorns will learn to mirror and complement the magic you summon with their own. So you see, you won’t just share their magic—you can mold it.”

“Fire magic is the least subtle of the elemental types. I say this with love, as the Eyrie’s fire instructor. It is volatile and highly dangerous. This is why we spend our first training session teaching you a degree of control.”

They were grand, with multiple stories, and decorated for their particular element. The water one, for example, had chairs and shelves forged in the shape of waves, and its walls were covered inside and out with paintings of water wielders using their power.

“I didn’t know you were here!” he said cheerfully, although his smile faltered when he looked at her face. “What’s wrong?”

Mitchell’s face was bleak, as were Flo’s and Mabel’s.

“But who’s doing it?” Gabriel demanded, his face ashen. “Who would attack two sentinels?”

The riders would collect food on a tray from the long table at floor level, then clamber about to find a place to eat.

Albert and Sarika had tears running down their faces. Even Bobby looked slightly perturbed.

“I am not a ghost or a specter. I am not mad or unhinged. The scariest thing about me is that I’m not so unlike you. My mutation might have faded, but I’m still a rider in here.”

Fifteen minutes later, Skandar and Bobby dawdled as the other Mainlander Hatchlings left Joby’s treehouse.