The Prophecy by Hilari Bell Page B

tied?”
    Lysander gave it a yank. “Yes.” He gazed uneasily at the forest around them.
    “Then stop worrying.”
    “Wait a moment, Perryn. I have to tie the other rope to this one.”
    Perryn fidgeted impatiently until the bard finished.
    “The trail goes up this bank.” Perryn strode on eagerly. “I wonder how much unicorns like everfresh. Watch out for a place to set a trap.”
    The tracks wandered up the slope, along a deer trail, and into a broad meadow with a stream running through it.
    Lysander’s hand closed over Perryn’s collar. “Stop.”
    “But the trail goes—”
    “We’re out of rope.”
    “Is it still tied to the tree?”
    Lysander tugged on it and nodded.
    “Then just let me go into the meadow. I won’t be out of sight for a moment. I’m sure these tracks are fresh.”
    “No.” Lysander was clutching the rope so tightly his knuckles were white. “We’re going back. Now.”
    “What is it? What’s wrong?”
    “I don’t know,” said the bard angrily. “If I knew I’d have told you long ago. It’s like I’m hearing things I can’t quite hear. I catch a glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye, but when I turn to look there’s nothing there.” He began to walk back, coiling the rope as fast as he could.
    “I haven’t seen anything.”
    “Except for unicorn tracks,” said Lysander. “You wouldn’t have seen a dragon unless you tripped over it. Are you coming or not?”
    Perryn looked at the tracks leading into the meadow. Now that he noticed it, even the sunlit field felt haunted. He turned and followed the bard.
    None of the trees looked familiar. If it hadn’t been for the rope and the tracks, Perryn would have sworn they were going the wrong way. He listened for the sound of the stream but he didn’t hear it.
    Lysander came to a stop. His sweaty face was pale, his expression grim.
    “What is it?” Perryn looked past him, and at last he saw a tree he recognized—a sturdy pine. Lysander’s rope was tied to it. The road was nowhere in sight.

“Courage,” said Prince Perryndon. “We may have missed the road, but we are not lost. The prophecy guides us.”
     

6
     
    “ IT’S ENTIRELY MY OWN FAULT ,” SAID LYSANDER . “I knew you were crazy. Why did I follow you? Why? Why me? No, it’s your fault.”
    “Me? You’re the bard. You’re the one who’s supposed to know about this forest. And tying the rope to the tree was your idea!”
    “How was I to know that the trees moved?”
    Exhausted tears burned in Perryn’s eyes and he pulled off his spectacles to rub them. At least it was too dark for the bard to see him. “I still don’t believe it,” he muttered.
    “Either the trees moved or the road did. And the unicorn tracks, too. Can any of your books explain that?”
    “Maybe somewhere,” said Perryn, trying to control the quiver in his voice. “But if there’s a book that does, I haven’t read it.”
    They had followed the tracks backward until they ran into a grove of trees so dense they couldn’t get through. When they circled around it, they found no trace of unicorn tracks on the other side.
    With no other course available to them, they followed the tracks back to the meadow with the stream. The sun was low when they reached it, clearly indicating which direction was west. They had entered the forest on the west side and moved east, so they decided to walk toward the sunset. They walked in a straight line for more than three hours.
    Perryn noticed unicorn tracks again and again. In spite of himself he began to follow them with his eyes, though his feet still followed the bard, until Lysander stepped out of the forest into a wide meadow with a stream running through it—a meadow they’d already seen twice. It felt strange, to hate the sight of such a beautiful place.
    “There are worse things than tears,” said Lysander gently. “I have a cousin who used to cry, and he outgrew it.”
    “When he was fourteen?” demanded Perryn. “I