The Swan Maiden (25 page)

Croa!
She opened her beak and croaked a laugh, then soared away from the campsite and over the treetops. With every wing beat, she thrilled to the freedom of the sky. Enchantment sang through her body, from strong claws to ebony feather tips, and pushed aside all doubt.

She had made the right choice.

Flying east, she studied the landscape below her. The rough gorge that contained the Turance gave way to a flatter, flinty pastureland dotted with sheep. Dry-stone walls and huts marked one holding from another. Jaume had said his people lived in town and that during the winter and early spring the brothers would take turns staying in the huts to protect the flocks from wolves and bears. In the spring, the shepherds and their dogs drove the sheep west through Beloc for the shearing, then on to the mountain pastures.

At a place where several roads met, a steady stream of ox-drawn carts and riders converged on Vent'roux. Market day?

From the shadow of a giant granite crag, the town beckoned. Curiosity sent Doucette flying closer.

Vent'roux's winding streets were lined with rows of stone houses capped with red tile roofs. Behind each house, gardens contained rows of vegetables or well-tended fruit trees. Fountains graced many of the town's small squares, which would be shaded in summer by large plane trees. Bare, spiky branches now admitted the autumn sunlight, which warmed the stone facades of the surrounding houses and brightened the colorful skirts and kerchiefs of girls fetching water.

A sturdy wall circled the town on three sides; the granite crag protected the fourth. Once past the town's main gate, Doucette swooped lower. Following the flow of people, she found a tree-lined market square next to an imposing guild hall. Behind tables heaped with harvest bounty, vendors cried their wares.

“Sound and round, cabbages! Fresh cabbages!”

“HO-la-la! White turnips and fine carrots!”

Crow-Doucette perched on the knobby limb of a plane tree and searched the busy square for a tall man in a shepherd's hat.

“Knives to grind, bring your knives to grind.”

“Millet here, buy your millet.”

“Wool for your spindles, good wives. Clean spinning wool!”

An eddy in the bustling crowd, then the sound of voices raised in shouts of welcome caught her attention. She flapped toward the disturbance and landed on the back of a cart piled with tanned leather.

Doucette recognized the stocky young man slapping Jaume's back. His brother Tinou.

“We expected you weeks ago! Where have you been?”

“Beloc.” Jaume pushed his hat back on his head and surveyed the market with visible pleasure. Other people clustered around him, blocking the aisles between the tables.

“You went to Beloc?” A bronze-skinned young woman with sparkling black eyes elbowed her way through the crowd. “What did you want with those sorcerous folk?”

“Too bad he didn't get turned into a frog,” Tinou said. “Improve his looks, wouldn't it?”

The girl wrinkled her nose. “He's fine as he is.” She held up her cheek to Jaume. “Give us a kiss, then, and welcome!”

Ready to peck, Crow-Doucette croaked and sidled along the cart-bed.

Jaume patted the woman's cheek. “The summer hasn't changed you, Mireyo,” he said. “I'm hardly home, and you're getting me in trouble with Tinou already?”

Mireyo flashed a warning glance at Jaume's brother. “Some people need a little encouragement.”

Tinou sounded harassed. “I've told you and told you—”

Jaume interrupted his brother. “Mother's at the stand?”

“Oh, aye,” Tinou said. “Father and Vitor are meeting a farmer about a grain purchase. Eri said he'd help her, though you know what that promise is worth.”

“It'll hold until the first minstrel comes along with a song to share.” Jaume chuckled and settled his hat on his head. “Come with me, you two. I've news.” He strode forward, returning the greetings called out from all sides.

Crow-Doucette couldn't help herself. She flew in his wake, her reluctant body pulled along by a heart desperate to be near her beloved.

The townsfolk seemed glad of Jaume's return. The friendly shouts and good-natured teasing made quite a contrast with the scornful welcome her family had extended. Despite her resolution to leave him, Doucette was touched by the effort Jaume made to keep his promise. Without causing offense, he managed to ease away before kissing any of the women—and there were many, she observed—who came up to him with an inviting smile.

“Cousin Jaume! Cousin Jaume!” A tiny girl broke loose from her mother's grip and hurled herself at Jaume, lips puckered for a smacking kiss.

“Beatris!” Jaume caught the girl by the arms and swung her in a wide circle.

She shrieked with laughter. He put her down and pretended to stagger, then wiped his brow with exaggerated relief. “What a great girl you are! How's the orphaned lamb coming along?”

“She's this big!” The girl spread her arms wide. “She can skip! Won't you come see?”

“Soon, Beatris.” Jaume touched the tip of the girl's nose with his finger. “I'm glad you're taking good care of her. I knew you would.” He turned the little girl toward her mother, who flourished a bouquet of leeks and parsley at him.

Inside her coat of black feathers, Doucette squirmed. She hadn't meant Jaume couldn't kiss a small child who obviously adored him! Had she? Was she so petty?

“Jaume! Son!” An angular woman dropped the skeins of white, gray, and brown wool she was arranging on a table.

Jaume held out his arms. His mother rushed into them, then coughed in surprise to be neatly set aside before she could kiss his face. He squeezed her waist. “I have good news.”

“About time you came home,” Na Eleno said. “Om Sergi's finally ready to part with that western field. With what you've brought…” Her voice trailed off as Jaume shook his head.

“We'll have to lease the field for another year,” he said. “I wasn't working. I went to Beloc and came back with a bride.”

“A bride?” His mother looked over Jaume's shoulder, at a well-dressed older woman who had come up behind pretty Mireyo. “From Beloc? What's wrong with Donsatrelle girls?”

“Nothing's wrong with them,” Jaume said.

“What possessed you?” Tinou punched his brother's shoulder. “Fall under a sorceress's spell?”

“Doucette's a swan maiden, aye, but also the bravest, dearest, most beautiful—”

“Lady Doucette?” Tinou sounded shocked. “That sweet girl, a sorceress? You're thinking of her sisters, surely?”

Na Eleno's hand flew to cover her lips. “Not Doucette Aigleron!”

Jaume nodded.

His mother sagged against the table. “You'd wed a witch girl?”

Doucette croaked in affront.

Mireyo rested her hands on her hips. “Are you mad, Jaume? The false gold their father spreads has ruined half of Donsatrelle's traders.”

“Doucette isn't responsible for Lord Pascau's actions,” Jaume said sternly. “You, of all people, should understand that, Mireyo. Did Vent'roux blame you for your father's rigged weights?”

“Jaume!” His mother voiced the disapproval that spread through the ring of surrounding faces.

Mireyo's black eyes filled with tears.

Tinou put his arm around her. “Listen, Jaume. If you weren't under a spell, I'd thrash you myself for saying such a cruel thing.”

Jaume bent his head. “Your pardon, Mireyo. Na Jonselet.”

Mireyo nodded. Her mother sniffed, unappeased.

“So where is she, this lord's daughter?” Jaume's mother asked. “Too good to walk into town on her own two feet? Sent you to fetch a carriage, so she could make a grand entrance?”

“No,” Jaume said. “We would have come together, but she wanted me to tell you first. I'm sorry to see she had the right of it. I hoped you'd welcome the woman I love.”

His mother sighed. “Loving a sorceress and marrying her aren't the same thing, Son.”

Widow Jonselet's voice was cool. “Really, Jaume. A noblewoman? And an Aigleron!”

Doucette ruffled her feathers. Clearly the townspeople didn't hold a very high opinion of Beloc folk, and her family in particular. Their insulting attitude bolstered her determination.

She wasn't a bit like her sisters, as they would know if they had troubled to find out. How could she have been happy living with people who despised her before they'd met her?

“Jaume!” A glad shout and a frenzy of barking broke the silence that had fallen over the knot of people at the wool stand. A gangly boy loped down the street past the guild hall, then wove his way between the shoppers and the market tables. As he got closer, a small brown-and-white shape streaked from his heels and leaped into the air.

Doucette hopped in surprised alarm, but she was not the dog's intended target. Four flying paws struck Jaume square in the chest, while a pink tongue swept out and licked him across the lips.

Aha!
Her sorceress self crowed in triumph. Jaume had broken his promise not to kiss anyone but her. He had let his dog kiss him. When he found Doucette gone, he would know it was his own fault.

“Fidele! Down, girl!” Jaume laughed and held the ecstatically wriggling body away from his face. “Missed me, did you?” The dog barked and snuffled and licked him again with such fervor that Jaume's family laughed at the sight.

Doucette's heart made a final effort.
You could join that laughing, loving family.

Not on their terms, her head insisted. Not before you know what you'd be giving up.

With a resigned squawk, crow-Doucette took wing and flew away from the market square, the town, her beloved, and his family. She didn't see Jaume's head turn to follow her flight, or his face sober as he took a hasty leave of his brothers, dropped his pack, and ran back the way he had come.

Keeping her face resolutely forward, she skimmed over the granite crag and flew east, toward the deep forest. In time, Jaume would forget her. She'd seen plenty of women who might be persuaded to take her place by his side.

And she? Doucette might miss his kisses, but it didn't matter if she forgot him or not. Her magic would console her.

*   *   *

She flew for several hours, veering away from roads as she skimmed over the thickest forest, not knowing what she sought until she found it.

A break in the trees revealed a spring-fed pond and a cleared patch of land hidden in a fold of the hills. She circled it twice before her keen crow eyes picked out the building at the eastern edge of the pond. After dipping closer to see who might be occupying such a remote place, she cawed in relief. Long abandoned, by the look of it.

This far from any road, it must have been a hermitage, or perhaps another sorceress's retreat. Doors and shutters had rotted in place, and brambles grew over the tumbledown walls between the untended orchard and vegetable garden. Missing tiles gave the roof a gap-toothed appearance, but with proper care, it could be a sturdy refuge. Given a little attention, the fruit trees and garden, too, could flourish again.

Doucette landed by the pond. Then she put her head down and twitched her neck until the gold chain came free of her feathers and landed on the ground. Magic flowed, smoothing the black feathers into paler skin, elongating her body and reshaping her arms and legs until Doucette crouched next to her pack, her feet crunching dried reeds.

She stood and twitched her skirts into place. She felt fine. Better than fine; magic and possibility filled her to overflowing. Every bit of her newfound strength would be needed, she thought, to make this remote place comfortable before the winter winds howled through the trees.

Tante Mahalt had built a great estate from wild lands once upon a time. Doucette would, too.

Winter

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chill autumn days gave way to frost-spangled nights as Doucette repaired the ruined dwelling. She didn't mind the worsening weather. When night fell, she had only to Transform herself into a mouflon and sleep warm in the mountain sheep's thick wool.

Between her training as a chastelaine and the tools she had found in a corner of the abandoned building, the work went swiftly. Doucette knew how roof tiles should be laid, edges overlapping, to shed the rain. She had supervised carpenters replacing doors, masons laying stone, laborers building fences. Now she had only to picture the task in her mind and Animate ax, saw, hammer, and chisel to their tasks.

Doucette lavished magic on her tools and materials, her power spilling into them as a pitcher pours water, but she felt no ill effects. Instead, it seemed the magic ran more easily through her body, as if her previous days of secret practice had opened new channels through which it could flow. Wherever she laid her hands, wonders appeared. The rush of power intoxicated her, and delight left little room for melancholy.