Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

He relaxed his grip further as she relaxed. She was not going to jump, now—he hoped. But he wanted to be sure, so he kept on talking. It could be a mistake to rush things, with a horse.

“Now I thought I could conquer you, Neysa. I thought I could ride you and make you mine, as I have done so many times before with other horses. I see now I was wrong. I rode you, but you are not mine. You will kill yourself before you submit to the taming. I hardly know you, Neysa, but I love you; I would not have you sacrifice yourself to escape me.” Stile felt moisture on his cheeks and knew he was crying again, as he had with Sheen. Few things could move him that way. A woman was one; a horse was another. “No, do not hurt yourself for me! I grieve at the very thought. I will let you go, Neysa! I can not impose respect on you. You are the most perfect steed I could ever hope to associate with, but I will seek another, a lesser animal. For I must be accepted too; it must be mutual. I can not love, and be unloved. Go with my regret, my sorrow, and my blessing. You are free.” And he let her go, slowly, so as not to startle her, and stepped back.

“Yet I wish it had worked out,” he said. “Not merely because I can see how good you would have been for me. Not only because the love of such a creature as you, not lightly given, is more precious than anything else I could seek. Not only because you are another example of what I like to see in myself, in my foolish private vanity: the proof that excellence can indeed come in small packages. No, there is more than that. I believe you need me the same way I need you. You are alone; you may not be aware of it, but you need a companion too, one who respects you for what you are. You are no ordinary mare.”

He saw a scrape on her foreleg. “Oh, Neysa—you were hurt on that run.” He squatted to examine it. Pain lanced through his knees, and he fell over, dangerously near the brink. He clutched at turf and drew himself back to safer ground. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly. “I have bad knees .. . never mind.” He got up carefully, using his hands to brace himself, for rising without squatting was awkward. He had never fully appreciated the uses of his knees, until their capability was diminished.

He approached Neysa slowly, still careful not to startle her, then bent from the waist to look at her leg. “I could wash that off for you, but there’s no water here and I think it will heal by itself. It is not serious, and the blood helps clean it. But let me check your feet, Neysa. I do not want to leave you with any injuries of my making, and feet are crucially important. May I lift your left front foot?” He slid his hand down along her leg, avoiding the scrape, then drew on the ankle. “Easy, easy—I just want to look. To see if there are any cracks—cracks in hooves are bad news.” The foot came up, though the unicorn was obviously uncertain what he was doing, and he looked at it from the bottom. It was still fairly warm; wisps of vapor curled from the frog, the central triangle of the hoof. “No, that is a fine clean hoof, a little chipped around the edges, but no cracks. You must get plenty of protein in your diet, Neysal”

He set the foot down. “I should check the others, but I fear you would misunderstand. This is one thing a man can do for his horse. He can check the feet, clear the stones or other obstructions, file them down when they wear unevenly or get badly chipped. The welfare of the steed becomes the responsibility of the man. When food is scarce, the man provides. When there is danger, the man fights to protect the horse. Some animals who prey on horses are wary of men. I might face down a wolf, while you—“ He looked at her horn. “No, you could handle a wolf! You don’t need the likes of me; why should I deceive myself. I could tell you that to be the associate of a man is to be protected by the intelligence of a man, by his farsighted mind. That a man will anticipate danger and avoid it, for both himself and his mount. His brain makes up for his lesser perceptions. He will steer around sharp stones that might crack hooves. But why should this have meaning for you? You have savvy like none I have seen in any horse; you don’t need protection. I delude myself in my desperate need to justify myself, to think that I could in any way be worthy of you.”

A fly buzzed up, landing on Neysa. She shook her skin in that place, as horses did, but the fly refused to budge. Her tail flicked across, but the fly was on her shoulder, out of range. She could get it with her mouth, but then she would have to take her attention off Stile. The fly, with the canny ruthlessness of its kind, settled down to bite.

Stile experienced sudden heat. “Now don’t startle, Neysa,” he said. “I am going to slap that bastard fly, so it can’t bother you. Easy, now . . .” He slapped. The fly dropped. “I hate biting flies,” Stile said. “I have known them hitherto only through research, but they are the enemies of horses. I will not tolerate them on any animal associated with me.” He stepped back, shrugging. “But I am showing my foolishness again. You can handle flies! Good-bye, Neysa. I hope you are happy, and that you graze forever in the greenest pastures.”

Stile turned and walked away from the brink, listening only to make sure the unicorn did not jump. His heart was heavy, but he knew he had done the right thing. The unicorn could not be tamed. What a treasure he was leaving behind!

There was a strange rippling in the grass of the ledge. It had been occurring for some time, but only now was he fully conscious of it. It was as if he were in a pool, and a pebble had dropped in, making a spreading series of circular waves. But there was no water. What was causing this?

Something nuzzled his elbow. Stile jumped, startled; he had not heard anything approach.

It was the unicorn. She had come up behind him silently; he had not known she could do that. She could have run her horn through his back.

He faced her, perplexed, Neysa’s ears were forward, orienting on him. Her muzzle quivered. Her great brown eyes were wet, gleaming like great jewels. She lifted her head and nibbled on his ear, gently, cares-ingly. She made a little whinny, cajoling him.

“Oh, Neysa!” he breathed, lifted by an explosion of joy-he had won her, after all.

CHAPTER 8 - Music

They were both tired, but Stile felt compelled to put distance between him and his point of entry to this world. Neysa, having consented to be tamed, was the perfect mount; the slightest pressure of one of his knees on her side would turn her, and the shifting of his weight forward would put her into the smoothest of trots. But mostly he didn’t guide her; he let her pick her way.

“I need to hide, Neysa,” he explained. “I need a place to be safe, until I can learn what I need to know about this world. Until I can discover who is trying to kill me, and why, and what to do about it. Or whether my experience with the amulet-demon was mere coincidence, a random trap, nothing personal. But until I know this land better, I have no notion where to hide. Paradox.”

She listened, then made a gesture with her horn, pointing west, and tapped a forefoot. “It’s almost as if you understand me,” he said, amused. “At least you understand my need. If you know of a place to go, then by all means take me there, girl!”

But first he paused to gather some straw from a mature field and fashioned it into a crude saddle. “I don’t really need a saddle, Neysa, but my weight will make your back sore in time unless it is properly distributed. The human seat-bones don’t quite jibe with the equine backbone. This straw is not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. We have to get my weight off your ribs and over your withers, your shoulders; that’s where you can most comfortably support it. And a token girth to hold it on, so I won’t have to yank at your beautiful black mane anymore.”