“And me also, I suppose?”

“No, he should not have dismissed you. You had no part in what happened.”

“The fact of the matter is, he was wrong to dismiss either of us!”

Questor shrugged helplessly. “He is the High Lord. Who are we to question his judgment?”

“Humph!” Abernathy snorted derisively. “The hunt was an ill-advised exercise of judgment, if ever there was one. He knew the history of the black unicorn. We told him the beast would not be trapped in a hunt, and he completely ignored us. He has never done that before, wizard. I tell you, he is obsessed with this beast. He thinks of nothing else. He has spoken of Willow only once—and that a tirade over her failure to return to him with the golden bridle. He ignores his duties, he keeps to his rooms, and he confides in no one. Not a single mention has been made of the books of magic since you returned them to him. I had hoped that the High Lord might give at least some brief consideration into looking for a way to use them to return me to my former self. Once, the High Lord would have done so without even having to think about it …”

The scribe trailed off self-consciously, glowering at the flames of the little fire. “Well, no matter. The point is, he is not himself these days, Questor Thews. He is not himself.”

The wizard’s owlish face twisted thoughtfully. “No.” He glanced momentarily at Bunion and was surprised to find the kobold nodding in agreement. “No, he most certainly is not.”

“Hasn’t been since …”

“Since we discovered that impostor in his bed chamber?”

“Since then, yes. Since that night.”

They were silent again for a moment. Then their eyes met, and they were startled by what they found mirrored there. “Is it possible that …” Abernathy began uncertainly.

“That the impostor was the High Lord?” Questor finished. He frowned his deepest frown. “I would not have thought so before, but now …”

“There is no way we can be certain, of course,” Abernathy interrupted quickly.

“No, no way,” Questor agreed.

The fire crackled and spit, the smoke blew across them with a shift in the wind, and sparks danced into the ashes. From somewhere far away, a night bird sounded a long, mournful cry that brought shivers down Questor’s spine. He exchanged quick glances with Abernathy and Bunion.

“I hate sleeping out-of-doors,” Abernathy muttered. “I don’t like fleas and ticks and crawly things trying to assume occupancy of my fur.”

“I have a plan,” Questor said suddenly.

Abernathy gave him a long, hard look, the kind he always gave when confronted with a pronouncement he would just as soon live without. “I am almost afraid to ask what it is, wizard,” he responded finally.

“We will go to the dragon. We will go to Strabo.”

Bunion’s teeth gleamed in a frightening grin. “That is a plan?” demanded Abernathy, horrified.

Questor leaned forward eagerly. “But it makes perfect sense that we should go to Strabo. Who knows more about unicorns than dragons? Once they were the greatest of enemies—the oldest adversaries in the world of fairy. Now the black unicorn is the last of his kind, and Strabo the last of his. They share a common cause, a natural affinity! Surely we can learn something of the unicorn from the dragon—enough perhaps to unravel its mystery and to discover its purpose in coming to Landover!”