The Swan Maiden (10 page)

“Captain Denis?” Doucette dropped the needle case, which skittered under the bed. She bent down to retrieve it.

“Why, you sound relieved,” Cecilia said. “Who did you think Azelais meant?”

“She can't wait to show off her new accomplishments at court,” Azelais said sourly.

“No.” Doucette could hardly tell them about the man who'd been haunting her dreams. A shepherd. Her sisters would laugh in her face.

Fortunately, a swallow swooped into the room and cut short Azelais's harangue. The bird twittered at them and flitted out.

“Tante wants us,” Doucette said. She left the needle case where it lay, seized her swan skin, and ran down the stairs ahead of her sisters.

Mahalt was waiting for her nieces in the great hall.

For the first time that summer, she did not wait alone.

Chapter Twelve

Doucette crossed the threshold and looked up in wonder. Fluttering plumage filled the raised gallery that wrapped three sides of the castle's vaulted hall. All around, birds made a restless, white-capped sea of brown and gray and black, streaked with the vivid blue of bee-eaters and the pale rose of flamingos. On the gallery's waist-high railing, flocks of little birds—warblers, sparrows, linnets, and woodlarks—had assembled. Tall white egrets and majestic herons peered over their smaller cousins' shoulders. Swallows wheeled through the stone arches that surmounted the railing. At the far end of the hall, a pair of crows quarreled with a hawk, until an owl clapped its wings and silenced both parties. Magpies scolded; a peacock screamed like a lost soul.

Closer, a seagull shrieked near Doucette's ear. She flung her arm up to protect her face, then lowered it when the gull flew by.

Cecilia skidded to a stop beside Doucette. Azelais arrived hard on her sisters' heels. Temper forgotten, her dark eyes shone with excitement. “What does it mean?”

“All the birds of the world have come,” Doucette said.

Mahalt stood by the hearth, where a blackened pot hung over a small fire. Their aunt wore a crimson gown. Rubies and diamonds flashed at her ears. She called the three young women, her voice low and calm.

Confidently, Azelais strode forward. “Yes, Tante Mahalt?”

Cecilia and Doucette trailed after her, staring at the masses of birds.

“Your escort from Beloc arrives earlier than expected,” their aunt said.

The young women nodded.

“You knew? Good. Vigilance becomes you. A sorceress will always have enemies seeking to curb her power and independence.” Mahalt's dark gaze traveled from one face to another. “I have not spoken of this overmuch, but I tell you now: Beware of men. Their promises are not to be trusted. If one finds your swan skin, he will make your life a misery.”

“Yes, Tante,” Azelais said. Cecilia murmured agreement.

Not all men were untrustworthy! Doucette wanted to say, but she held her tongue.

“You see our guests.” Mahalt gestured at the gallery.

The sisters nodded.

“The birds come to witness who will be Queen after me,” Mahalt said.

“Queen of the Birds?” Cecilia bounced on her toes.

Azelais licked her lips. “You're ready to choose your heir, Tante Mahalt?”

“Choose?” Mahalt drew out the word. “No. The title is not mine to give, but rather yours to earn.”

“A magical contest?” Cecilia clapped her hands.

Excitement hummed inside Doucette. She, too, had a chance. If she were named Mahalt's heir, perhaps her parents would realize how wrong they had been to hide the swan skin from her.

Except I'm not ready,
another part of her wailed silently. With only two months of practice, how could she equal Azelais's and Cecilia's spellcraft?

“I had hoped you would have more time to prepare,” Mahalt said, her glance resting on Doucette as if reading her thoughts, “but Sarpine forces my hand. There are several parts to the trial.” She pointed at a table where three river stones rested. “First, you will Transform an object. Azelais?”

“Yes, Tante.” The dark-haired girl tapped one of the stones with her wand and muttered under her breath. The rock sparkled, then flattened like a lump of melting butter. Its gray color warmed to a rich green.

Thin. Thinner. Thinnest.

When elegant folds of fabric draped across the table, Azelais nodded in satisfaction. The color of the scarf matched her dress exactly.

Mahalt picked up the length of green silk. The fabric whispered over her hands. “Nicely done,” she said, “though the weave is loose here”—she pointed to a section. “And here.”

Azelais flushed.

“Observation,” her aunt reminded her. “You must picture exactly what you want before you begin.”

“Yes, Tante.”

Cecilia's Transformation, a golden harp, was judged more successful.

Mahalt skimmed her fingers over the strings. Sound rippled into the room, and nightingales trilled in response. “Lovely,” Mahalt said.

Cecilia curtsied gracefully. “Thank you.”

Doucette's stomach clenched. Her turn. She tapped the remaining rock with her wand and tried to fix her idea in her mind before she spoke.

Be thou painted image,

show Azelais,

Cecilia,

Doucette.

A memory

for our aunt to hold

when we have gone.

The rock flattened into a wooden oblong the size of Doucette's clasped hands. The other women leaned closer as the board's surface streaked with patches of color, then sharpened into three faces—a portrait.

Perfectly detailed in every respect, Azelais's dark beauty, Cecilia's mirthful face, and Doucette's worried gray eyes regarded them.

“Oooh,” Cecilia said.

Doucette frowned. Her eyes looked too big, and her hair—

The image wavered; the bright colors smeared. “No!” Doucette cried out in disappointment as the board lost its shape and reformed as a rock.

Her hand trembled on the wand. She was sure she had the will to make a spell endure. She had to win this contest, to prove herself.

“It was a pretty idea,” Cecilia said generously.

“While it lasted.” Relief flashed under Azelais's calm.

Mahalt didn't waste breath on Doucette's failure. She held up her arm, and three doves fluttered down to perch on her sleeve. “Next, you are to Transform a living creature,” she said, giving a bird to each niece. “Cecilia, will you begin?”

“Yes, Tante.” With her usual exuberance, Cecilia turned her dove into an enormous brown bear.

It shook its head, as if getting its bearings. Then the bear lumbered to Mahalt and stood, putting its mighty paws to the sorceress's shoulders. Toothed jaws opened in an earsplitting growl.

Cecilia shrieked in horror. Frantically, she waved her wand, but the bear remained a bear.

Squawks and whistles and a desperate honking filled the air as the queen's subjects flew to her defense.

At the still center of a blizzard of darting, clawing, pecking birds, Mahalt smacked the bear across the chin and spoke a sharp command.

Sparks spangled the brown fur. The roar dwindled to a coo as the huge beast turned back into a dove. With a whir of wings, the little bird joined the flock circling the hall.

In the uproar, Doucette had let go of her dove. It flew to the top of a pillar. “Please,” she said, “come back. Come back!” But although she coaxed and whistled, she couldn't persuade the dove to return to her hand.

Her aunt directed the birds to settle themselves. “A sorceress keeps her mind fixed on her goal, Doucette,” she said, watching her niece's vain attempts to retrieve her dove. “Like Cecilia, you failed to think ahead. She made no provision to curb her beast. You lost yours to fear. You have both failed. Can you do better, Azelais?”

Doucette stepped aside, biting back her protest. How unjust, that she hadn't even had a chance to try!

A smug Azelais tapped her wand on the dove she had kept tightly clasped to her breast.

Be thou catling,

fluffy white,

spare

with thy claws, but

lavish

with thy affections,

until Mahalt releases thee

from thy unaccustomed shape.

When Azelais opened her hands, the kitten blinked, then mewed. It stretched adorably, licked one paw, and washed its whiskered face.

Doucette and Cecilia traded despairing looks.

Azelais handed the ball of white fur to the Queen of the Birds. The kitten purred and bumped its head against Mahalt's fingers, paying no attention to a goose's derisive honking.

“As you know, I am not best fond of cats,” Mahalt said. “However, this one wins the second test.” She brought the kitten to her lips and whispered. With an irritated fillip of wings, a dove rose from her hands.

Mahalt surveyed her nieces. “For the last trial, you will Transform yourselves and see who is the strongest. Take as many or as few forms as you like, but remember that your spell must include a means of returning your own shape.”

Doucette resolved to do better. If she could only win this task, neither sister would have an advantage, and the contest might be extended another round.

The young women set down their wands.

Cecilia crouched to touch hers and changed into a long yellow serpent. In a deliberate challenge, one sweep of her tail knocked Azelais's wand across the floor.

Azelais responded instantly. Where she had stood, a black horse reared, laid back its ears, and screamed in defiance. Returning to the ground with a loud clatter, powerful hooves pounded the floor.

Snake-Cecilia coiled and struck, but the horse's well-aimed kick sent the long yellow body flying into the wall. Serpent hit stone with a wet-sounding smack.

Cecilia rolled out of the snake shape and vomited onto the floor. Panting, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve and burst into sobs.

Horse-Azelais bugled victory.

Doucette swallowed hard. With a crown for the taking, she could not afford to fail. And to beat Azelais, Doucette would have to surprise her sister. Nothing too ambitious, though—Doucette had barely mastered this spell. She pressed her foot against her wand and whispered:

I'll be wasp,

my sting

to drive

a high horse mad,

until she

or I

surrender.

Flying straight to the horse's vulnerable muzzle, wasp-Doucette arched her body.

But Azelais was too quick for her.

Before Doucette could sting, one hoof touched Azelais's wand. The black horse dissolved into a cyclone of spinning air that picked up the wasp and whirled it around the hall.

As the invisible wind whipped Doucette past a thousand snapping beaks, her mind spun with terror. Fearing each moment would be her last, she blamed herself for choosing such a helpless form.

It seemed to Doucette like an eternity before her sister tired of the cruel sport. At last, wind-Azelais dropped her dazed wasp sister to the floor and whistled around the wand. Lightning shot through the column of boiling air, then thickened into streaks of green and black.

Azelais stepped from the whirlwind, one leather slipper poised within an easy step of crushing her rival.

Doucette buzzed. “I surrender, Azelais!”

The words could be clearly heard, though her voice sounded strange coming from a wasp's small body. Obediently, her spell unraveled, leaving Doucette lying in a crumpled heap across from the still-whimpering Cecilia.

Mahalt's fathomless gaze rested on each of her nieces in turn. “Winning two of the three trials, Azelais has bested both of you,” she said. “The birds of the air deserve the most powerful champion. Azelais shall be my heir.”

Doucette slumped on the floor. Azelais preened, savoring her victory and the death of her sisters' hopes. Their aunt drew a thin gold fillet from behind her back (and where had that come from? Doucette wondered dully) and set it over Azelais's brow.

The birds greeted the crowning with raucous acclaim, twittering and chirping, hooting and cawing. Their beating wings obscured the ceiling of the great hall.

Azelais stood proudly next to Mahalt as birds wheeled over her head. Most contented themselves with dipping a wing in salute before flying out the open doors, but some alit for an instant on a shoulder or outstretched hand. Affectionate as a turtledove, a sea eagle slid its head under Azelais's ear and tugged loose a strand of black hair.

One of the doves landed near Doucette's hand and cooed at her, as if in apology. But when she would have stroked the white feathers, it flapped away.

Forever lost, like the chance she had squandered for a triumphant return to Beloc.

The hall emptied.

Chapter Thirteen

Doucette ladled a supper of millet porridge into a bowl and stole up to the flight court outside her chamber. In the comforting night, perched between the Immeluse's tumbling water below and the silent stars above, she needn't hide her disappointment or her dread. She didn't have to pretend, like Cecilia, that losing a crown was a minor setback, that life would continue to unroll as merrily as it had before.

Though the coming days might be long and warm, with autumn's frost still weeks away, summer had ended for Doucette. When Captain Denis and his men reached the ford, she and her sisters would return with them to the Château de l'Aire. Without a victory to shield her, Doucette would be exposed to the full force of her mother's wrath.

An owl flew past, ghostly in the moonlight, then backwinged to a stop on the balcony railing. The sleek head swiveled. Round eyes examined Doucette from under tufted brows.

The bird seemed so intelligent that Doucette was moved to extend her spoon. “Millet?” she asked. “With cinnamon. A little scorched, but not terrible.”