The Swan Maiden (19 page)

Touched by his care, Doucette turned her head so her lips brushed his fingers, then pulled away as a different awareness rippled across her skin. Jaume sensed it, too; she felt his body tense.

A presence. Watching them.

Doucette lifted the lamp high, illuminating steps that led down into the steaming pool. Amber mist rose from its surface. Underneath, the bubbling liquid might be water, or molten stone, or some other substance altogether.

Whatever it was, it looked hot. Dangerously hot. Was she mad, to think of consigning herself to it? Doucette's burned hands throbbed in their bandages. Her body clenched with the will to run, but her mind checked it.

She had spent her childhood fleeing to one hidey-hole or another, smarting from her sisters' tricks. Afraid to confront her parents with her newfound swan skin, she had escaped to her aunt's castle but failed to win the crown. She had even flown from Jaume, due to a misunderstanding as much her fault as his.

This time, she would finish what she had begun. And though Doucette's legs trembled with the urge to run, she didn't. After putting herself and Jaume at Lavena's mercy, she refused to leave without attempting the Rassemblement.

Doucette lowered her head and addressed the unseen depths. “Please, Lavena,” she said, her voice quavering more than she liked, “I have come to be remade. By your grace, build of my bones a ladder, so that my companion may reach the top of the pillar and take the bird he finds there.”

“A ladder?”

The ancient, husky voice might have condensed from the steam or issued from the rock. Only an aggrieved note hinted at the invisible speaker's lost humanity.

“Young people these days. All they want is ladders and keys, ladders and keys. Why not a nice harp, eh? Delicate bones like yours would make a fine harp, girlie.”

Terror chilled Doucette's skin. Her lips felt so numb, she was surprised she could shape the proper words. “A ladder, Lavena, of your kindness.”

“Oh, I suppose.” The voice took on a wheedling, almost hungry note. “You'll pay for it?”

Doucette spoke quickly, before she could change her mind. “Yes.”

“And your companion? He knows what to do?”

Beside her, Jaume stiffened. He could refuse, Doucette knew. She could hardly bear to imagine what the Rassemblement would require of them both. No blame to Jaume if he decided the reward not worth the price.

Light as a bird's wing, Jaume's kiss graced Doucette's cheek. He bowed in the direction of the pool. “Aye, and it please you, Lady.”

The hoarse voice cackled. “Nice manners, for a rustic. Well, go on, girlie. We're waiting.”

Doucette wanted to cling to Jaume's broad shoulders, longed for him to tell her it was all a mistake. She wished she could wake up safe in her bed and know the rasping voice, the dark cave, for a nightmare vision. But Jaume had not failed her. She would—she must—repay his trust with her own.

She set down the lamp. Somehow, her shaking legs carried her forward, step by slow step. In the expectant silence, she had plenty of time to notice the stonework Jaume had admired. Large blocks fitted seamlessly together and were capped by such an elegantly curved molding that the whole needed no other decoration. In the lamplight, the stone glowed honey-gold, streaked with apricot and ocher. Like the materials that formed the castle walls, town buildings, and fountains above them, these slabs must have been chipped from the quarry across the ridge from the Château de l'Aire.

Doucette spared an instant to wonder about the long-dead mason who had laid these stones so carefully, one on another. A master craftsman, her chastelaine's eye told her. Had he finished his work and lived to see the sky again, smell new grass and wood smoke, walk hand in hand with his sweetheart by the light of a harvest moon? Or had he perished in the endless dark?

Steam curled over the toes of her shoes; she had reached the edge of the pool. She couldn't help looking over her shoulder. If the ritual failed, at least she would carry with her a final memory of Jaume's dear face. His dark eyes held hers.

“Courage, love,” he whispered.

She crossed her hands over her heart. Closing her eyes, Doucette started down the stairs. Her left foot found a shallow ledge; her right foot met nothing.

Dragged down by the sudden weight of her sodden clothing, she plunged to the bottom of the pool. The Cauldron's boiling water closed over her head. If it was water, she thought wildly.

Heat engulfed her.

Limitless heat, unlike any she had experienced. Not the oppressive sun of a summer's day, which can be cheated by a patch of shade or a drink of cool water, nor the radiant blast of Na Patris's open oven, grinning with jolly ferocity around a mouthful of loaf-teeth. It was nothing like the fire that had eaten her swan skin and blistered her hands, a swift, voracious blaze that stank of charred feathers and blasted hope.

No, this heat
stripped
her—of clothes, of flesh, of life and will—but Doucette could sense no malice in it. She was simply bathed in currents of elemental magic, which no mortal form could long withstand.

In its way, the experience exalted. Dancing with lightning might feel the same, though no one she knew had survived to tell the tale. Not that she expected to, either. If Doucette had anticipated how much the Rassemblement would hurt, she didn't think she could have taken that final step. Ignorance was required. Or faith, perhaps, that this agony served a purpose, that some part of her would remain after the dissolution of all she was and all she knew. But the future was out of her hands. Doucette burned and had no voice to scream.

*   *   *

An eternity later, pain loosened its grip on her mind, though Doucette could make little sense of her surroundings. She could no longer feel her limbs and, again, would have screamed. If she had a mouth. Or breath.

She couldn't move or see, smell or taste.

Alive or dead?

Her senses couldn't tell her. Trapped in a vast black emptiness, a tiny, determined kernel of her self remained. All she could do, it seemed, was listen.

Lavena muttered, “Sweetness, eh? Now, dearie. A sorceress daren't be sweet!” The voice emitted a cackling laugh; invisible lips smacked together.

A faint but steady clicking sound teased the edges of Doucette's awareness.

“Mm, mm. Several fine qualities to choose from,” Lavena said. “Kindness, modesty—and what good would that do me, I ask you? Perseverance, perhaps, but—no. You'll need that, and where's your pride? Not enough to speak of, girlie. Not nearly enough, and you an Aigleron!” Lavena sounded affronted. “Too soft by half, but wait—is that jealousy I taste?” Again, the cackle.

“At least you've a young man worth scrapping over. Climbs nimble as a monkey, though he's great big feet that—mind the scapula!” The voice screeched, then subsided into a fretful murmur. “Wait for the leg bones, why don't you? No patience, these young people. What, you've never seen a skull before? Step gently, eh? That's better. Ribs, ribs, ribs.…”

Formless, Doucette floated. She couldn't lift a finger to change events, but it appeared from Lavena's mutterings that Jaume had assembled Doucette's bones into a ladder and was busy climbing it.

The grisly idea seemed far removed from her current state. Doucette drifted, lost in a sea of magic, until Lavena's attention captured hers once more.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. Now, girlie,” the husky voice said. “What about your memories?”

The eerie tranquility evaporated as ghostly fingers poked and prodded Doucette's mind.

The spirit picked through Doucette's past, shaking out her memories and inspecting them as Lady Sarpine might examine an old gown for flaws. The sensation was horrible, but Doucette could neither avoid it nor protest. She could only endure.

“Pathetic,” Lavena said. “Useless. This one's completely threadbare—why'd you keep it? Ah. What about this?”

As a shining bit of thread catches a magpie's attention, the memory of Doucette's first flight as a swan snagged Lavena's interest. Doucette relived the rush of the wind against her skin, the terror of falling, the surge of elation as her wings bore her up.

“Not bad. Not bad at all, but I've others like it. Hm. Your shepherd lad's reached the top.” The voice sounded mildly surprised before it turned testy. “Put the bird in your shirt, idiot boy. Don't be climbing down one-handed. Not the jaw, don't hang on the—huh. Stronger than I expected.” Again, an almost human amusement touched the inhuman voice.

“Well, dearie, I don't want your virtues, and your past doesn't interest me, so I believe I'll settle for the traditional payment. More than fair. Your young man's putting the ladder down in the—ah! Yes. I'll just take this one. You'll hardly miss it.”

Doucette heard a sharp cracking noise. The sound brought on an avalanche of sensation.

Forearm, shin, breastbone, hipbone, backbone, thigh bone—Doucette could feel each one distinctly, tumbling over the others to find its appointed slot. Muscles snapped into place. A lattice of veins wove through her body with dizzying speed. Her heart jumped and then beat strongly within its cage of ribs. Hair sprouted from her scalp, each strand vibrant with life. Slack lungs craved air, but when her mouth opened, a fiery liquid rushed in.

Hot, hot, HOT! Inside and out, Doucette burned.

Arms and legs thrashed, lifting Doucette's head above the surface of the pool. Jaume seized one of her flailing hands and hauled her out of the Cauldron. She sat down and doubled over with pain. Her cloak shimmered.

Her dry cloak.

Whatever boiled in Lavena's Cauldron, it wasn't water.

“Doucette? Are you well? Speak to me!”

Doucette tried to nod reassurance to Jaume's frantic questions. Slowly, the fiery heat receded, leaving her overwhelmed with sensation. Every part of her skin tingled, as if she had been rubbed all over with fresh snow or hot oil. Her right foot, especially, throbbed urgent warning. She looked at her legs, extended in front of her. Her shoes had disappeared; her feet glowed rosy pink in the Cauldron's strange light.

Jaume noticed at the same instant. His face darkened with anger. “Your toe!”

Dimpled skin covered the spot where her smallest toe had been. Doucette's stomach turned over; she turned aside and retched. Mercifully, nothing came up. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and made herself answer calmly. “Lavena's price,” she said. “A toe is minor, compared to what she could have taken.”

“What?”

“Truly, Jaume,” Doucette insisted, before he could offend the spirit. “It could have been much worse. And you? Did you get the Aigleron?”

“Oh, aye.” Visibly, he reined in his anger. He patted his hat. “It's safe.”

Doucette bowed over her knees with relief. The Rassemblement had worked! Jaume had the Aigleron, and Doucette hadn't died or lost an arm, her mind, or her memories, only a toe. As for her magic, time would tell. At the moment, she felt alive all over, if rather too exposed, like an earthworm yanked wriggling from its den. “Thank you, Lavena.”

A distant, fading cackle answered her.

When Doucette tried to stand, her legs wouldn't hold her. She smiled crookedly at Jaume. “I'm afraid you'll have to carry both me and the lamp.”

Willing arms scooped up her limp body. “Gladly,” Jaume said.

Chapter Twenty-two

Light speared Doucette's eyes. She closed them tight and burrowed under the bedclothes. Her head felt stuffed with a greasy wool that muffled her very thoughts.

Dark, it had been dark, she remembered, and frightening, but Jaume carried her. In his arms, she was safe.…

“Wake up, Doucette,” Azelais said. “It's almost dawn.”

“Leave her be,” Cecilia said. “After what Mother did to her swan skin—”

“Dreadful.” Azelais's voice dropped. “But she might as well see the end of this ridiculous business.”

“Hush,” Cecilia said more sternly.

Azelais hushed. Doucette gave up trying to open her eyes or string two thoughts together and gratefully sank back into sleep.

When she opened her eyes again, Doucette blinked in surprise. She felt so new! Refreshed, restored, no pain anywhere. Even her hair felt alive, swirling over her shoulders like quicksilver. Her bare skin reported smooth sheets that smelled of lavender water under the slight rasp of a wool blanket. She could feel the warmth of individual sunbeams dancing along the foot that stuck out from under the bedclothes. She wiggled her outstretched toes: one, two, three, four.

In an instant, she remembered it all. The cavern, the Cauldron, the spirit.

Four toes.

Doucette pulled her maimed foot inside the covers. It had happened, the Rassemblement. It was real. Lavena had taken her payment. What had she given in return?

Doucette closed her eyes and lay still, exploring the unfamiliar sensations that filled her. Once, when she put on her swan skin, the magic had tingled along her skin. Now it flowed inside her. With every breath, she sensed it surging through her veins, its rhythm as steady as the sea.

With power this strong, she could sculpt mountains, level cities, shift the stars in the heavens. She no longer needed a wand or a swan skin to work the High Arts. Infused with sorcery, her body
was
a wand.

At least that's how it felt. Could she translate this impression into action?

Doucette laid her hand over a bolster.

Be thou silk covered,

dappled as my swan feathers,

as crackling frost,

as veined marble.

Magic rushed through her fingers, draining her strength as it Transformed the pillowcase. With heroic effort, Doucette raised her head. Under her fingers, the plain linen became white silk, shot through with silver threads.

Overcome by weakness, she closed her eyes and surrendered once more to darkness. When she woke again, the chamber was awash in late afternoon's golden light.