The Swan Maiden (11 page)

The bird's beak clicked. A crippled talon pushed the spoon away. Then, without a sound, the mottled brown shape stretched until Doucette's aunt leaned against the railing beside her.

“I've eaten,” Mahalt said. “Your pardon for burning the porridge.”

Doucette gulped in surprise at her aunt's Transformation. As she swallowed the mouthful of millet, a question occurred to her. “Why don't you use a wand?”

Her aunt sounded amused. “You think magic would improve my cooking?”

“No,” Doucette said. “I meant—that's not what I'm asking.”

“I know.” Mahalt relented. “Sorceresses may use other magical objects, rings and such, in the place of wands.”

“You don't,” Doucette observed. “Well, you often wear rings, but you're not wearing one now. How did you change out of owl shape?”

“Ah.” The Queen of the Birds rubbed her bare hands together. “You do have the eye for this work, Niece.”

Doucette took another bite of porridge and chewed. She had failed, hadn't she? What was the point of empty compliments? Unless her aunt meant to deflect the question. “How
do
you work magic without a wand, Tante?” she persisted.

“A true Aigleron, stubborn to the core,” Mahalt said. “Well, I told your sisters. It's time you knew, too.” Her weight shifted to her good foot; her skirts rustled softly. “Though I pray you never find yourself desperate enough to venture it.”

Doucette thought of her aunt, deprived of her magic and her freedom, and shivered. “The Rassemblement?”

“Yes,” Mahalt said somberly.

“Cecilia said the spirit Lavena helped you get your swan skin back, for a price.”

“My ankle bone.” Mahalt's malformed foot flexed in its soft leather shoe. “There's no predicting her whim. She might take a finger joint, a rib, an ear, a mind—there's no knowing in advance and no bargaining after the fact. That is one of the risks.”

Doucette's appetite vanished. She dropped the spoon into the bowl and set it down. “And the others?”

“There are a thousand ways to fail. You must surrender yourself completely, knowing Lavena will root through your mind like a sow through a midden, nosing out what to keep.” Remembered pain edged Mahalt's voice. “And that is only the unmaking. What to speak of the Rassemblement itself.…” She sighed. “Bone by bone, your companion remakes you. If true, he or she will lay you straight. But if, through your helper's disgust or cowardice, the job is ill-done…”

“The magic is lost?” Doucette asked when her aunt's voice trailed away.

“No, no. Lavena's no cheat. Those who survive a bath in her Cauldron do gain power. But more than one fresh-faced maiden has returned a twisted crone and turned her family's love to fear.”

“You didn't,” Doucette said.

“I kept my looks.” Mahalt sounded almost as if she might have preferred things otherwise.

Moonlight revealed sorrow etched into her face. Had she loved the husband who took away her freedom?

Shyly, Doucette touched her aunt's hand. “I'm sorry.”

Mahalt pulled away, and her face resumed its usual impassive expression. “All power has a price. If you choose sorcery, Doucette, know that you are also choosing constant vigilance. Magic will mark your soul. You must beware the motives of others. And you must beware your own.”

“What do you mean?”

“The more you work magic, the more, let us say,
delicious,
it becomes,” Mahalt said. “Tempering power with wisdom—it is not an easy life. Though it has its rewards.” Her fingers closed like claws over the railing, then let go. One elegant hand swept over Doucette's hair in a rare gesture of affection. “If I thought you couldn't withstand the temptation, I wouldn't have taught you. Don't be discouraged by what happened this afternoon.”

Doucette scuffed her shoe against the tower wall. “Azelais was haughty enough before. I hate to think how she's going to act now, knowing she'll be a queen.”

“The birds may be her saving grace,” Mahalt said unexpectedly, “as they were mine. Having something to care for counters the danger.”

“But winning would have meant more to me than ruling your birds,” Doucette confessed. “I wanted to prove myself equal to Azelais and Cecilia, for once.”

“You will. I see great promise in you, Doucette. You've mastered the underlying principles of Animation and Transformation. Honing your will, your concentration, will come with practice.”

“If Mother lets me,” Doucette said.

“You're an Aigleron, Niece, behind that sweet smile. Don't forget.” Mahalt stretched her arms to the sky. “It's a beautiful evening. Have you flown as an owl?”

“No,” Doucette admitted.

“It's not to be missed.” Her aunt gave her a sidelong glance. “Shall we?”

Doucette was glad to put aside her worries and her aunt's warnings. “Yes, please, Tante Mahalt.”

Mahalt touched Doucette's head and spoke. Two owls swooped from the ramparts and vanished into the soft summer night.

Chapter Fourteen

Days later, Doucette had cause to wish she were a bird again. She sagged in the saddle, rubbing at the road dust that crusted her lips and caught in her eyelashes. She felt dry and hard, like a piece of bread left out too long.

It would have been more pleasant by far, she thought, to fly the remaining distance, but Azelais had insisted the three of them ride home “as befitted their status as noblewomen.” Doucette and Cecilia thought that Azelais was more interested in displaying her gold circlet than maintaining propriety, but both were too dispirited to challenge her.

So Doucette's mare plodded behind two armsmen's mounts, climbing the steep road that led to the Château de l'Aire. The late-afternoon sun beat on Doucette's head, while her sore thighs reminded her of each step taken in the long journey. Longingly, she remembered the shade of Tante Mahalt's woods, the fresh scent of pines and running water.

Underneath the lowland's stale heat, a constant thread of worry tightened around her middle.

Had enough time passed to blunt the worst edge of her mother's anger?

Feathers tickled Doucette's neck for what felt like the thousandth time. Riding in the lead of the party, Azelais and Cecilia had changed their swan skins to light scarves with a tap of their wands, then draped the scarves around their necks. Doucette had preferred to keep her cloak's reassuring weight against her back.

Except that she was so hot! Perhaps their idea was better. Doucette reached for the wand that nestled against her forearm, inside her long sleeve.

Before she could cast the spell, her horse lifted its head and pranced a couple of steps. Doucette had to juggle the wand and the reins to keep her seat as she rode between the town gates and into sudden shadow.

Tall, narrow houses blocked the worst of the sun's force but also trapped the hot air in the street. Doucette wrinkled her nose at the mixture of strong smells: roasting meat and baking bread, the reek of livestock manure, the fragrance of roses that climbed over doorways.

Attracted by the jingling progress of the armed party, heads popped out of open windows above the street. Two stories up, a small boy sat on a balcony between pots of blooming pinks, bouncing a stick over his knee. At the end of his makeshift fishing rod, a wooden hook dangled from a length of cord.

As Doucette rode underneath, she reached up and tapped the hook playfully with her wand. “Good catch to you, Master Fisherman,” she called.

The boy shouted as the cord jerked from the weight of the painted metal fish Doucette's spell had left in the hook's place. He flicked the line into his lap, jumped up, and ran inside, waving his new toy.

“Ma!” she heard. “They're back to the castle. The swan maids, Ma!”

Doucette straightened in the saddle. Her mare, knowing that water and grain waited in the stables ahead, quickened her pace. The file of riders bunched together, and Doucette found herself riding at her oldest sister's side.

Although Azelais didn't touch the gold circlet that crowned her dark hair, every move betrayed her awareness of it. She glanced at Doucette and frowned. “Spending your magic on a town brat? Father won't be pleased.”

“Thank you for your counsel, Azelais,” Doucette said, more pertly than she once would have dared. “I'm sure you know best, O Heir.”

“Jealous cat.” Azelais's sneer promised retribution, but before she could loose her wand, Cecilia's mare nosed into the gap between Azelais and Doucette's mounts.

Since their mutual defeat at Azelais's hands, Cecilia had begun to take Doucette's part. Once again she played the peacemaker, fanning herself with a languid hand. “It's too hot for quarreling. What I'd give for a cool drink!”

Doucette slowed the mare and let her sisters ride ahead. Accustomed as she had grown to the isolation of the Château de l'Île, she felt a little shy to see the number of people who had come out of the tile-roofed houses and shops to greet them. Women bobbed curtsies, while children ran at the riders' stirrups, cheering, until the horses clattered past the steaming fountain and through the first set of gates, into the lower courtyard of the Château de l'Aire.

Here, too, a crowd of servants, armsmen, knights, and ladies had gathered.

Doucette knew that her party would have been spotted crossing the plain, giving the castle folk plenty of time to prepare for their arrival. It felt odd to be one of the riders making a grand return, rather than the person supervising supplies of washing water and refreshment.

“Lady Azelais, Lady Cecilia!” Na Patris bustled over to the young women in the lead. The baker's freckled face beamed over a basin of water dappled with red rose petals.

Doucette slid off her horse and almost fell into the arms of a tall, curly-haired man.

A bolt of delighted surprise struck her. In the next breath, she knew it came from confusion born of fatigue. This man's dark curls were threaded with gray, and he wore a servant's leather apron, not a shepherd's tunic and leggings. Doucette had known Na Patris's husband Om Toumas, the orchard master and bee-man, since she was a tiny girl. She had no reason to mistake him for another.

“Welcome home, Lady Doucette.” Om Toumas took the mare's reins. “It's a long ride from Luzerna.”

In his deep voice, Doucette heard the lilt of a pleasant memory. “You've been there?”

“Oh, aye.” He stroked the horse's dusty neck. “Grew up in Donsatrelle county, near Vent'roux. You remember my cousins come every year for the shearing?”

“Yes.” She could hardly forget, when she kept seeing one of them in her dreams. But Om Toumas was still speaking. Doucette tried to pay attention.

“Helped herd the flocks to summer pasture in Luzerna when I was a sprout. Never seen such stars. Close enough to pluck with your hand, and the music of a night! Pipes and drums.…”

“Mm,” Doucette said, distracted by an influx of well-dressed courtiers. Had her parents come? She didn't see them, so as the servant led her horse away, she followed her sisters to dip her hands in Na Patris's basin and wipe them on the offered towel. Perhaps she would have time to change her dirty clothes before facing her mother's displeasure.

While Azelais and Cecilia chatted with the courtiers who flocked around them, Doucette left the courtyard and sought the stairs to her bedchamber.

Na Claro met her on the first landing. “There you are, little lady! Your mother has a number of tasks for you. Best get started at once, to finish by dinner. She'll see you then.”

“What?” Doucette stopped short, her swan skin fluttering around her ears. “But, Na Claro, I'm a swan maiden. A sorceress.”

“I know.” The woman put a wrinkled hand on Doucette's sleeve and urged her upward. “Though I'd suggest putting away your pretty coat. A headache has Lady Sarpine completely out of sorts. She even sent Brother Martin off to Mardèche to fetch the de Brochet physician, since none of the usual remedies have eased her. You'd be wise not to flaunt your magic in her face.”

Staring at her feet, Doucette moved steadily up the stairs after the servant. The one thing she hadn't considered was that her parents might pretend she had never left!

It couldn't last, of course. The discovery of her swan skin had changed her. Doucette could no more resume her old life than a chick could return to the egg.

A sorceress did not give up her magic for any price.

Doucette paused at the corridor that led to her parents' chamber and steeled herself for a fight. But then she thought of how tired and hot she was, of the disadvantages to appearing before her mother in travel-stained clothes, with the swan skin's majesty dulled by road dust, and her courage failed.

The feast held to welcome the returning swan maidens was always a grand occasion. If Lady Sarpine felt too unwell to see to the details herself, it would be unkind, almost spiteful, for Doucette to refuse help she could easily give.

Slowly, she set her foot on the next step and climbed.

In her bedchamber, she hastily wiped her face, rebraided the hair to get it out of her eyes, and changed from her grimy travel clothes. She thought about wearing the swan skin openly, despite Na Claro's warning. But in the end, she tapped it with her wand and murmured a spell, Transforming it into an inconspicuous gray ribbon. She laced the ribbon through her gown's ties and tucked the free ends into her bodice. To keep it close but clean and out of her way, she told herself.

Not to hide it.

She slipped the wand into her sleeve, straightened her shoulders, and opened the door. “Lead on, Na Claro,” she said.

“The dairy first, Lady Doucette, if it please you.”

*   *   *

By the time Doucette reached the final item on Na Claro's list of tasks, she was so tired she felt as though her legs might give way beneath her. Walking alone through the almond orchard, she looked over the terrace's stone wall, toward Luzerna. How unfair that the golden, drowsy landscape should be so indifferent to her fatigue.