Authors: Mercedes Lackey
"He
will, I tell you, for I was there!" she declared. "He asked to be
admitted to the feast and presented himself to Lord Lyon—and oh! I swear to you
that I have never seen a handsomer man except the Lord himself! Hair as long as
my arm and so black! Face like a pagan god, with such green eyes! Dressed all
in black velvet he was, too; it was clear to see that he was not only a
magician, but a man of noble birth." She sighed, and the others twittered
to each other. "He made his compliments to the Lord, said he was from some
outlandish foreign land, and begged that he might have the honor of performing
magic for the wedding to make it the talk of the land. Lord Lyon was suspicious,
but the fellow kissed a cross and held a sword, so he wasn't one of—
them
—so it was all
right. Lord Lyon asked what he planned to do, and the man said that he would
give the Lord a smaller entertainment right then!"
"Well?"
"Then what?"
The
maid laughed. "Oh, I wish you had seen it! First he made a fog rise up in
the middle of the floor,
then
a tree grew up through
the fog, all bare branches, but shining like gold. Then the branches suddenly
burst out in emerald leaves and rosy flowers, then the flowers turned to
scarlet fruit, then the fruit burst open to release a flock of birds all in
yellow and red and green that flew up to the ceiling and disappeared! Then the
leaves on the tree turned red and gold and fell to the floor, and the branches
of the tree shot fountains of fire, and then the whole thing vanished into thin
air!"
Ariella
thought with an aching heart of the beautiful visions that Merod had conjured,
and wondered how anything so tawdry as the girl had described could compare to
the glimpse she'd had of the Great Ones dancing.
Some
southern mountebank, likely, with cheap illusions that passed for real magic
among those who had never seen the genuine article.
The
maids, however, were more than impressed with their fellow servant's
description and voiced their envy while speculating on what the foreign magician
might produce on the morrow. One girl voted for a troop of knights on winged
horses to escort the bride and groom, one for a forest of silver and gold trees
with fiery birds singing wedding songs, and one for fountains of sparks and
fire, and great fiery bursts of sky-illuminations, with an invisible band of
musicians playing in accompaniment.
When they had
finished turning Ariella into a soft, primped, perfumed and polished creature
she hardly recognized, they assisted her into a fine nightgown, gave her a
hot, sweet posset to drink, and put her to bed. There must have been something
akin to the Abbot's potion in the drink, for she fell asleep before they
finished closing the curtains around her.
The
maids woke her at daybreak, singing as they brought the wedding dress to her.
It might just as well have been a shroud, for she felt no joy in seeing it,
only despair and a wild wish to rend it to pieces and escape.
But
there was no escape, and the maids encased her in the heavy, entrapping folds
of the dress,
then
smothered her in the veil, with her
hair loose and unbound beneath it. They weighed her down with chains and
fetters in the form of jewelry and exclaimed how lovely she was. Then they led
her down to meet her doom.
At
the foot of the stairs, Lord Lyon waited with a troop of his guards, all garbed
for the occasion in splendid red surcoats over their mail like the one the Lord
himself had worn the day he came for her. He, for once, was not in armor; he
wore a scarlet damask robe that matched her gown, and he took her hand with a
smile so feral and hungry that she shrank inside the heavy gown, feeling her
heart contract to a hard, cold knot.
He
said nothing but simply led her along yet another torchlit hall to another
door. This one led to a stone- paved courtyard filled with people in festive
array, and a low platform on the opposite side held a portable altar and a man
in the robes of a priest.
But
a handsome, striking man standing immediately before them was not in the bright
peacock colors of the rest of the guests. Instead, he was clothed from head to
foot in black velvet, even to boots and gloves of the same material. He bowed
when Lord Lyon appeared, and stepped forward, holding out his hands.
"For
you, my Lord, to place your seal upon your bride," the man said in a
melodious tenor as he placed a massive gold ring in the shape of a lion with
ruby eyes in the Lord's hand.
"Remembering that some
things must be grasped and held against all odds."
Lord
Lyon exclaimed with pleasure, for the ring was of such fine workmanship that
every hair in the lion's mane had been perfectly formed, and the rubies flashed
with far more fire than the ones Ariella wore. But the beauty of the ring gave
Ariella no pleasure, only a further sinking of her heart.
But
the man had turned to her, and had taken her free hand, placing something into
it and clasping her fingers around it. "For you, Wild Swan," he
said—and there was something about his voice, and something in his emerald-
green eyes, that seemed strangely and tantalizingly familiar.
"Remembering that some things are meant to be shared."
He
dropped her hand; whatever he had put in it was round, cold and hard—but it
didn't feel like a ring. She relaxed her fingers a little, just as he stepped
back and raised his hands—
She
hadn't felt any real interest in the gift, but his sharp glance at her hand
drew her own gaze to what she held. It was a rainbow-filled sphere as
transparent as crystal, as fragile as a bubble, and cool and smooth as a
sphere of ice.
"And
now," he cried, before she could react, "I bring you magic!"
The
air exploded with colored lights, flashes of rainbow fire, and showers of
sparks. Lord Lyon cried out involuntarily and threw up his arm to shield his
eyes, dropping Ariella's hand.
She
stepped away, clenched her fingers tightly on the magician's gift, and felt it
shatter in her grasp.
A white-hot lance
of fire pierced her from head to toe until she thought she saw her own bones
shining through the skin, and yet there was no pain—only the fire filling her,
spreading through her veins, along her nerves, penetrating every part of her.
The
weight of veil and golden band dropped from her head, and she stretched her
chin upward—craned her neck up—
—and
up, and up—
Her
arms pulled in at her sides and grew shorter; her fingers stretched out longer
and longer, fanning wide as they lengthened, skin weaving a web between them.
The gown
vanished,
the undergown shredded, tore,
became threads of gossamer flowing over her elongated fingers— —became white
feathers, clothing her powerful wings. She was light! Lighter than
a thistledown
, light enough to—
:Fly
, Wild Swan!:
called a voice in her head.
:Fly
!
Fly for your freedom, fly and follow me
!:
Without
thinking or wondering how, she launched herself into a sky still filled with
showers of sparks and sheets of heatless flame. With powerful beats of her
wings, she drove herself upwards, as beside her a swan as black as the deepest
velvet matched her wingbeat for wingbeat. She was a swan, a huge swan whiter
than snow, flying with strength she did not know she had.
In
a moment, they were at the height of the towers. In two, they circled high
above the castle roof. In three, they banked together off into the west. The
figures of the wedding party below were as small as the painted people in an
illumination, and one tiny scarlet-clad manikin gestured wildly and impotently
in their direction.
But
it was too late, for already they were beyond the reach of human or arrow.
Perhaps, if someone had brought a goshawk out and set it after them, perhaps
the powerful predatory bird would have caught one of them—but no one had, and
in the fifth and sixth moments, they were gone, wings whistling in the chill
air, speeding out of the sight of Lord Lyon and Lyon Castle forever.
The
wild joy Ariella felt at that moment was only eclipsed by her incredulity as
she tried to form her thoughts into words she hoped that her companion would
hear.
:Merod
?:
she gasped,
craning her head around on her long, graceful neck to look at him. He looked
back at her, the mischief she remembered so well sparkling in his green eyes.
:I
wondered how long
it would take you to recognize me.:
He chuckled.
:But
—how? How did you
know what happened? How did you find me? Why did you come for me
?:
:Follow,:
was all he said,
and she did, flying until even her powerful wings tired, and he led her down to
land on the chill waters of a remote wilderness lake.
He
swam straight to the bank without stopping, and she followed in his wake. The
moment their feet touched land, she felt a pang, a shiver ran through her, her
vision blurred, and she found herself standing in shallow water, the remains of
the samite undergown in rags about her.
The
black-velvet-clad man lifted her by the waist and deposited her on the bank,
wrapping his black cloak about her to shield her from the cold.
"You're—"
she said, staring up into his green eyes, dumbfounded. "You're—not a
riverhorse."
He
chuckled. "Three gifts, my love. I was only mortal long enough to venture
into that cold castle and pass your captor's tests. One
wish
to change, one wish to escape. Now I—we—are swan-folk, less Faerie than
Kelpies, but not exactly children of Adam, either. We are swans upon the water
and in the air, man and woman on the land, thanks to the Great One's
gift."
"I
thought you said you never had a reason to become a mortal—" was all she
could say.
"I never had
anyone I cared to share the other wishes with, either—until now," was his
reply, then he bent to kiss her mouth, and she melted into the kiss, and there
was no reason to speak again for a very long time.
"Where
are we going?" she asked when there was breath and reason to speak.
"Away,"
Merod replied and laughed. "Anywhere you like, beloved. We have
all the
world and the wings to take us there."
"Anywhere
you like," she told him as he released her from his embrace to lead her
into the water again. And as the cold water crept past her knees, she felt that
shiver of power pass through her, and she was swimming at his side.
:Anywhere
at all, so long as it is with you.:
He
arched up, wings flapping in triumph, as he trumpeted his pleasure. She echoed
his triumph, and then they rose together into the air, wings beating together
in time with their hearts, seeking the setting sun.