surely you noticed, on entering this land, a beauty surpassing even that of Sanctuary?”
“You refer to the flowers and the trees?”
“Among many other elements of exquisite beauty, yes.”
“They are fashioned, Kahner! All here in this land seems to be fashioned, including the sun and any animals, I suspect.”
“That is correct, Childheart, and this land in all its fabrication has a beauty that far exceeds that of Sanctuary, for unlike the beauty of Sanctuary, this beauty cannot die!”
“What you call ‘this beauty’ cannot die, Kahner; but neither can it live, making it infinitely less beautiful than the beauty of Sanctuary. For what lives is infinitely higher in order than that which does not live.”
“But Childheart, consider the heavens—the endless and eternal universe of stars and galaxies. They do not live, but are they not of far greater beauty than what lives—and will die—in tiny Bairnmoor?”
“Kahner, without at least one living thing to consider it beautiful, nothing of beauty can exist, even if it be otherwise the most beautiful and enduring of all things. And, further, Kahner, I would consider even the most withered of a dead blade of grass to be infinitely more beautiful than all the (as you say, ‘exquisite’) fields of flowers and groves of trees you will ever fabricate.”
Kahner stood and circled the chair before sitting once again. “Childheart, let us not quarrel; but let us speak frankly with each other, for time is short. And let me begin by saying, quite obviously, that not all that I told you back in the library in Taralina’s castle was true.”
“I sensed something was amiss, even then, but since I did not know what, I gave you the benefit of any doubt, trusting you entirely, Kahner.”
“In that, then, oh otherwise rather wise one, you were wrong.”
“No. In that I was in error, but not wrong. It is never wrong to trust.”
Kahner chuckled. “But how can trusting ‘in error’ ever be right? I think they call that a contradiction, do they not?”
“Because trust is a virtue, Kahner; its value isn’t dependent on the thing or one trusted, or on any sort of accomplishment of trust. Rather, trust rewards you regardless, because it enables you to be truly who you are, and truly who you are in relation to another who is truly who that other is—whatever that is.”
“But you trusted one, Childheart, back in the library, who wasn’t who he truly was, but who was merely acting—the entire time acting—with you never once suspecting that I was doing so.”
“Quite to the contrary, Kahner. In the library, I was trusting the Kahner you truly are, and not one who was acting. For you are who you truly were when the girls loved you into personhood, when you shared the deepest of loves with Beatríz—and because with Beatríz, so with all of us who love her. No. That was no act. I do not know what has happened to you, but I do know that you are acting now, and that you are not yourself, not the true self I trusted.”
Kahner stood abruptly. “Impudent unicorn! Do you have any idea who I am?”
“I have already told you: you are the true Kahner all of us knew and loved, and who loved us, whatever sort of false Kahner you seem to be at present.”
“You fool!” Kahner turned toward the closed doors. “General Custagus!”
The doors opened, and in stepped the one summoned. “Yes, my lord?”
“Tell this horse’s ancestor—this horse’s ass—who I am!”
“Why, my lord, you are Santante, also called Kahner, the son of the most high, Sutante Bliss.”
Kahner turned and smiled at Childheart, looking for a face of surprise, if not of alarm, and perhaps even distress, while motioning the general to take his leave. The doors shut with a reverberating echo, as if punctuating the declaration, leaving Kahner and Childheart alone once more. Childheart remained motionless and without expression.
“Now that you know who I truly am, what do you have to say for yourself, Childheart? Think carefully,” he quickly added, “for perhaps your words will determine your fate, and perhaps even the fate of those whom you love.”
“I have spoken the truth. I will say no more.”
“Childheart! I am giving you an opportunity to save your life—and the lives of those you love! Acknowledge me for who I truly am, the son of Sutante Bliss, the heir to the throne of all of Bairnmoor, and I will make you second in command of the whole of my realm—and allow your companions to live, and to serve under you. This I promise you, if you simply acknowledge me as your lord.”
Childheart was silent for a moment, and then spoke. “You can promise nothing now, because you are now nothing; and all who are above and who serve beneath you are nothing.”
“Childheart!” Kahner yelled, and then gathered himself, continuing softly, “Childheart, I am giving you a chance to live, and any of your friends who may yet be alive somewhere in Bairnmoor with you! Their lives, and the life of all of Bairnmoor, as well as your own life, are in your hands and under your control. Only acknowledge me as lord; that is all that is required of you, and you shall save your life, and enable all whom you love to live.”
“Kahner, given who you now pretend to be, there can be no life under your rule—mine, theirs, Bairnmoor’s, or even your life. Therefore you provide no chance for anyone to live.”
“Then death shall be your choice, Childheart! Except that it shall be a long and slow and torturous one. Guards!”
Again the doors opened, allowing in three dozen warriors, mostly Wolfmen, who encircled the unicorn. “Take him to the foundry,” ordered Kahner, “and to the hardest of labors! For as long as he lives! And let that be as long as possible!”
Kahner then turned his back on Childheart and stomped through the door behind the throne. Childheart was shackled and yanked away.
~five~
“thorn? thorn?” the girls squealed with unrestrained delight.
“Is that really you, Thorn?” exclaimed Elli, struggling under the weight of Beatríz’s chest to turn around to see.
“Thorn? Thorn? Do you know Thorn?” said the voice, laced with both skepticism and desire.
The light around Elli no longer glaring and oppressive, she tilted her head way back to behold, only two feet above her own, the face of what appeared to be that of Thorn, except for the bushiest bunch of dreadlocks Elli had ever seen encasing its head, the two bulbous eyes scarcely visible from behind the braids that draped, twisting and turning, all the way to the creature’s knees.
“Elli? Elli, what is it?” pleaded Beatríz, who couldn’t see what was behind Elli’s head.
“I should say not ‘what’ dear child, but who!” rejoined the Dactyl-looking speaker, reminding both girls of Thorn’s friendly reprimand of Jamie so long ago. “And who or what might you be?” inquired the stick figure, “besides, obviously, children and girls? And, I’d like to know, what
