Laird Thomas spread six maps across the porch rail and knew none of them would find the oracle before winter took his lovers from him. He had sworn a binding neither church nor crown could grant. Only the wandering oracle could tie three hearts under one vow. He had chased rumor for eleven days. Every rumor pointed a different way. Behind him, the cabin door opened. The ginger princess stepped out with a tray of honeybuns, her red hair still flour-dusted at the ends. She set the tray on the rail without touching his maps. "You haven't slept," she said. Her voice was soft, almost teasing. "You'll ride into a ditch before you ride into a blessing." "I have three roads and no reason to pick one." He pressed his thumb to a river bend. "North says a shepherd saw her. East says a miller fed her. South says a widow shared her fire." The princess touched his wrist. "Pick the one that feeds people." Boots hit the porch behind them. Fancy Pants came around the corner in her golden trousers, curls loose, a bridle hooked over her shoulder. She looked at the maps once. "East," she said. Thomas turned. "You know the miller?" "No." "Then why east?" "Oracles eat." She dropped the bridle on the rail. "Millers have flour." The princess laughed under her breath. Thomas didn't. He watched Fancy Pants, who had already turned toward the paddock behind the cabin. Two shapes moved there under the pines: black horses with folded leather wings and horns that caught the low sun. His lovers had raised them from foals. The dark unicorns would carry a rider farther in a night than any road horse in a week. "You'll take me," Thomas said. "We'll take you," the princess corrected, already untying her apron. He opened his mouth to refuse. Fancy Pants met his eyes. "Your vow. Our ride." He closed his mouth. They flew before the moon rose. The winged unicorns climbed above the pine line and turned east on Fancy Pants's word. Thomas rode the third mount, the maps rolled and forgotten in his saddlebag. Wind pulled at his hair. Below, the mill road unwound like pale thread. They found the mill by the smell of scorched bread. A thin woman sat on the step, eating from a wooden bowl. She looked up before the unicorns touched ground. "You're late," she said. "She left this morning. Went into the Witherfern proper. She said if a knight came asking, tell him the binding costs more than he thinks." Thomas dismounted. His boots hit the yard hard. "How much more?" The woman shrugged and went back to her bowl. "She said you'd have to catch her to find out." The oracle had a name now, a direction, and a price. Thomas swung back into the saddle.

Thomas had one boot in the stirrup when he saw the beggar. The man crouched by the mill's water trough, wrapped in a sack coat, watching the winged unicorns the way a starving dog watches a butcher's door. His eyes moved from the horns to the reins to the hilt at Thomas's hip, and then, slower, to the two women beside the mounts. The ginger princess was closest, still turned toward the thin miller's daughter on the step. Her red hair caught the morning. She had no blade on her. Fancy Pants stood a pace off, one hand on her unicorn's neck, golden trousers dulled by road dust. She had already seen the beggar. She did not move. Thomas took his boot out of the stirrup. The beggar stood. He held a short whittling knife low against his thigh. He was thin enough that the knife looked heavy. He took one step toward the princess. "Wait," Thomas said. The beggar did not wait. He took another step. Thomas walked between him and the women. He did not draw. He pulled the coin purse from his belt and let it hang open in his palm so the man could see the silver inside. "You want the horses," Thomas said. "You can't ride them. You want the sword. You can't lift it long. Take the purse and eat for a month." The beggar's eyes flicked to the princess again. His knife hand twitched. "Look at me," Thomas said. "Not her." Behind him, Fancy Pants spoke, flat and quiet. "He's deciding." "I know." "Don't kill him." The princess did not speak. Thomas heard her breath stop. She had asked him once already, over another man, in another yard. He had not promised. The beggar lunged. Not at Thomas. Past him, at the princess. Thomas caught the knife wrist with his left hand and turned it down. The blade went into the dirt. He drove his knee into the beggar's ribs and the man folded. Thomas pinned the wrist under his boot and did not draw his sword. He pressed the purse into the beggar's free hand. "Go east. Don't come back to this yard. If I see you again I won't stop at the ribs." The beggar took the purse. He ran, one arm across his side, and did not look back. Thomas picked up the whittling knife and drove it point-down into the trough's rim. His hands were steady. That surprised him. The princess touched his sleeve. "Thank you." "Don't." He would not be thanked for the one he did not kill. Fancy Pants was already at the mill door, speaking low to the thin woman inside. She turned back with a folded scrap of paper in her fingers. "She says the oracle left a track," Fancy Pants said. "A boy saw it. He wants coin to say where." Thomas looked at the empty purse hook on his belt, turned something low, the ward provided, the purse was instantly replenished with gold coin, he tucked it away discreetly, and said, "Let's find him. I can cover the coin."