The Swan Maiden (2 page)

Doucette wiped flour off the table and tried to fix her mind on the one hope Na Patris had given her.

No—two. There were two reasons to be glad.

For one, Doucette wouldn't actually have to brave the caves under the castle or the fearsome spirit who guarded them. And, if Om Toumas's hunch proved correct, Doucette might soon see Jaume of Vent'roux again.

The prospect lightened her steps as she helped the baker empty the oven.

Chapter Two

Doucette stopped in the center of the steep, rocky road. “You take the bread, Anfos. Give me the honey jar.”

“Won't, little lady,” the kitchen boy said stubbornly. “Na Patris gave it to me.”

“I know you can carry it.” Doucette cast about for a likely argument. Anfos took his duties seriously. She couldn't insult him by saying that, between the wheel of cheese strapped to his back and the big jar clutched to his tunic, he looked like a beetle. Worse, he kept them to a beetle's pace. At their current rate of descent, a line of ants might overtake them, not to speak of Azelais and Cecilia's mounted party. “But see? This sack is leaking flour on my gown.”

“Girls,” the kitchen boy said under his breath.

Pretending not to hear, Doucette shoved the sack of welcome bread at him. “Thank you for trading.” She slipped the honey jar out of his arms and tucked it in the crook of her elbow, then picked up her skirts with her free hand and walked on.

Though the clay jar was heavy, her spirits rose with each step. The sun had begun to burn through the morning fog, and the air smelled sweet from the herbs growing wild among the rocks: thyme, fennel, sage, and lavender. Close by, a woodlark whistled its descending song:
titloo-eet, titloo-eet.

The bird sounded as glad as Doucette was to have escaped from the stone confines of the castle, which perched like a brooding eagle on the steep ridge above and behind her. Though the Château de l'Aire was handsome in its way, she admitted to herself. Built of local stone, its golden walls and towers rose tall over the town that straddled the ridge between castle and quarry. Terraces of flowering almond and cherry trees, gnarled olive and cypress softened the ridge's flanks, until the sheer pitch of the castle's rear defenses merged into the cliffs that protected it from the plain below.

As the road switched direction around a large boulder, Doucette spotted a glint of moving water in the distance. The shearing pens were constructed along the riverbank, so the fleeces could be easily washed. To find the wool mistress, Doucette and Anfos had only to follow the flocks drifting like clouds across the green-and-brown land. Shepherds from all the neighboring counties brought their beasts to Beloc to be shorn before continuing north to summer pasturage in the mountains.

Doucette looked forward to the shepherds' seasonal visits. The lambs were adorable, and their keepers were men and women with merry eyes and carefree ways. Joking and teasing as they worked, few felt compelled to instruct Doucette in herding, shearing, or the finer points of animal care.

But the shepherds' greatest appeal was their music. Each one, it seemed, played an instrument or sang. When the shepherds could be persuaded to climb the long road to the castle, even Lord Pascau's troubadours listened with pleasure.

“D'you think they'll play for us, little lady?” Anfos piped up, echoing Doucette's thoughts.

“I hope so,” she said.

“Om Toumas said his Vent'roux cousins were coming. I like Eri best,” the kitchen boy confided. “For all he's the runt of the four, he can sing. And Jaume's not bad on the pipes, neither, though I hope Vitor practiced his drumming over the winter.”

“And Tinou?” Doucette asked, amused by the kitchen boy's connoisseur air.

“Eh.” Anfos waggled his chin. “Strings all sound like yowling cats to me.”

Doucette would have asked Anfos's opinion of her father's harpist, lured at great expense from another county, but the sound of pounding hooves distracted her. “Oh, no.”

Anfos cocked his head. “Who's mad enough to take their horses that fast down the—oh.” His expression changed as he understood Doucette's dismay. “The swan maidens. Get off the road, Lady Doucette! No, there's thorns that way. Up the rock here—scramble! Or they'll run right over us.”

The first rider thundered past, long golden hair and white-feathered cloak streaming behind her like a banner.

Anfos whistled under his breath.

Doucette hugged the sheltering rock. Her toes curled in her walking shoes, now wet with dew and splotched with road dust. She knew she had flour on her skirts and a big sticky spot where honey had dripped onto the front of her gown. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe her sister would gallop on.

A shrill whinny dashed Doucette's hopes. The bay mare whirled and trotted back to the boulder.

As always, Cecilia looked magnificent, in a wild sort of way. Her blue eyes sparkled, and the golden curls tumbled riotously over her shoulders, mixing with the swan skin's disordered white feathers. “Fairer-than-a-fairy” and “Passe-lys,” the troubadours called her, as they called Azelais “Dark Swan” or “Passe-rose” for her equally dramatic coloring.

Doucette felt the familiar, aching mix of admiration and envy well up inside her. She didn't share her sisters' beauty or magic, but couldn't the saints at least have gifted her with a tiny portion of the assurance Azelais and Cecilia possessed?

Cecilia's lovely mouth pursed in mock surprise. “You're out for an early stroll.”

Awkwardly holding the honey jar, Doucette climbed down from the rock. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks, though she tried to hide her chagrin with a mask of calm. No sense in giving her sister another weapon to wound her with. “Good morning, Cecilia.”

“Wherever are you going?”

“The shearing pens, to deliver a few things for Na Patris. Welcome bread for the shepherds. Honey to Na Soufio.”

Cecilia clicked her tongue. “A shame you forgot to tell Mother about the baker's important commission. Poor Na Claro ran her old bones up and down the tower stairs, calling for you.”

Doucette dug her toe into the dirt. “I'm sorry.”

“It's Na Claro deserves your apology, not me.” Absently smoothing her ruffled swan skin, Cecilia leaned over the saddle and turned her dazzling smile on Anfos. “And who's this?”

He ducked his head. “Anfos, Lady.”

“The kitchen boy?” Cecilia drawled. “Your taste in escorts is delightfully original.”

Doucette was spared from responding when, with a jingle of mail shirts and swords, several armsmen reined in behind her sister.

“Lady Cecilia.” The first man tugged on his leather cap. “How can we protect you if you leave us behind?”

Cecilia smirked at him. “Ride faster, Renod.”

“As you command, Lady.”

Her sister's latest conquest, Doucette thought, judging from the man's foolish expression. Sorceresses weren't bound by the rules that governed an ordinary woman's conduct. Azelais managed her affairs with discretion, but Cecilia took pleasure in twisting propriety into knots and tossing it over the battlements.

“What's the delay?” Azelais called from the rear of the line.

“Come see,” Cecilia said.

The armsmen shifted their horses to make way for a spotted gelding whose rider wore a feathered cloak as black as the knot of ebony hair at her neck. In contrast to Cecilia's charming dishevelment, Azelais's appearance was immaculate, as always.

“Doucette!” Elegant dark brows drew together. “You missed our leave-taking to carry that ugly jug down the hill? And walking abroad without a proper escort! Have you no scrap of dignity?”

Doucette shrank under the withering stare.

“Don't fuss, Azelais,” Cecilia coaxed. “She can hardly fly, can she? Provisioning the shepherds like a good little chastelaine—I call that sweet.”

“Chastelaine?” Azelais's pomegranate lips compressed. “I see a drudge dressed above her station, but that is easily remedied.” She flicked the polished wooden wand from her knot of black hair, murmured a few words under her breath, of which “kitchen” and “rags” were the loudest, and reached down from her horse to tap Doucette's shoulder.

The Transformation spell fell over Doucette like a shower of icy needles. Magic stung her skin. Her woolen gown dissolved into a tattered patchwork. On her feet, the leather walking shoes hardened into wooden clogs, which found no purchase on the slippery rock. Holding desperately to the honey jar, Doucette lurched to her knees. An overstressed seam gave way and ripped loudly, exposing her white shift. Doucette's jaws clenched in humiliation.

“Cruel, Azelais.” Cecilia giggled. “Apt, but ooh, so unkind.”

One of the armsmen coughed. Another hissed behind his hand, spreading the word though the file of riders.

Doucette struggled to her feet. Transformed by Azelais's wand, the torn dress barely covered Doucette's shins. The material was threadbare where it wasn't patched and ugly with stains. The trick was calculated both to embarrass Doucette and infuriate their mother, who loathed sorcery and unseemliness in equal measure. Since Azelais would be gone when the spell was discovered, Doucette alone would suffer Lady Sarpine's rebukes.

“Azelais, please,” Doucette said miserably. “I'm sorry you were offended.”

“No, no.” A smug Azelais waved away Doucette's apology. “If you're not going to act like a comte's daughter, no one should mistake you for one.”

Cecilia shook her golden head. “I disagree. Dressed that way, she'll bring ridicule to the Aigleron name. No, I think our Doucette needs to remember
exactly
who she is.” Blue eyes shone with sly humor as Cecilia slid her wand from her sleeve and tapped Doucette's head.

This time, Doucette's skin warmed as the spell flowed over her. A rush of magic whisked away the ragged garment and replaced it with a gown so fine that Doucette's relief changed to alarm.

Silvery green ribbons trimmed the lavender velvet, which fell away from her shoulders in soft, smoky folds. Then, so softly that she almost missed the translation, the wooden clogs Azelais had bestowed melted into delicate silken slippers. Doucette hardly dared move. The fabric felt so cobweb-fine that a deep breath might tear it.

Ceilica laughed at Doucette's expression. “Isn't that better?” she teased. “You'll think twice before mucking about in this gown.”

“It's beautiful, Cecilia, but—”

“Why bother, when she'll drag it through the sheep pens?” Azelais sniffed. “You might have saved yourself the trouble.”

“No trouble,” Cecilia said. She rolled her shoulders, shaking out the coat of white feathers so that it gleamed in the morning light. “Some of us have magic to spare.”

Azelais's black swan-skin fluffed with outrage. “What are you insinuating?”

“Why, nothing.” Cecilia was all blond innocence. “Of course, you must arrive in suitable style, Doucette, though I'd rather not delay our journey to deliver you.” She produced a white square of linen and stroked it with her wand. “Take a corner.”

Trapped inside her glorious dress, Doucette stared at the handkerchief Cecilia had tucked into her free hand. “How much will this hurt?”

“Tcha. One would think you didn't trust me.” Cecilia winked at Anfos, who had been following the spell-casting with wide eyes and a wider mouth. “Boy, this side is for you. Hold tight!”

“Yes, Lady Cecilia!” Agile as a cricket despite the cheese on his back and the sack of bread tucked under his arm, Anfos reached for the cloth's far corner. Once he took hold, the white square stretched between him and Doucette until it was large as a bed sheet.

Cecilia gestured with her wand. Wind filled the white cloth, making it billow like a sail. Her mare snorted at the flapping cloth, and Cecilia patted the bay's neck in reassurance. “Don't fret,
chère.
We'll be off in a moment.”

“Yet another waste of magic,” Azelais said sourly.

“Close as the poor thing will get to wings,” Cecilia said, and urged her mount down the hill. “Good-bye!”

“Help!” Doucette cried out in alarm.

The giant-sized handkerchief stuck to her fingers, carrying her along as the sail belled out and lifted into the air.

The ground dropped away.

“We're flying!” Anfos shouted. “Lady Cecilia Animated us!”

Doucette's stomach lurched in protest. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, hoping it would settle. This violent swooping was nothing like she had imagined the many times she had seen Azelais and Cecilia strip off their gowns and put on their magical swan skins. She had always held her breath as the Transformation swept over them, wondering how it felt when feathers merged with your skin, when your body shifted into another shape.

And then, to fly …

*   *   *

Once, it had been pure pleasure to watch them. When Doucette was small, she had thought she, too, would learn flying and sorcery one day. After all, she had inherited her sisters' outgrown gowns, their fat old ponies, their browbeaten tutors and exhausted dancing masters.

But on her tenth birthday, Doucette had knelt before her smiling parents to open a carved wooden chest just like the ones belonging to Azelais and Cecilia. Like theirs, Doucette's box held beautifully embroidered linens, a warm fur robe, and a ring of keys.

Unlike her sisters' boxes, it contained nothing else.

“But, Mother, where's my swan skin?” Doucette had asked, disappointment robbing her of caution.

“Your
what
?” The comtesse had flushed, then paled. She shot a vicious look at her husband. “Is this your doing, Pascau?”

“Nay, I promised her no such thing,” the comte said. Stroking his dark beard, Doucette's father studied his youngest daughter with unusual interest. “What put that idea into your pretty head, Doucette?”