The Swan Maiden (8 page)

“Too close, Bodo.” The muscles bunched in the man's arms as he tried to regain control of the net. “Ravioun! Quickly. If we lose her—”

The net flapped.

Doucette surged toward the opening and freedom, but the younger boy shook his stick. “Get back!”

“Boy. Lay down the cudgel.” The voice that spoke was as clear as snowmelt.

Ravioun dropped the stick. Both boys bowed their heads, touched their hearts with their fists, and stood shivering in the cold water. Doucette peered through the mesh.

“Lady Mahalt.” The miller's face had turned as white as his flour. “She's yours?”

“You know the penalty for harming one of my swans.” Mahalt Aigleron shrugged her blue cloak away from the shoulders of her gown. A slender finger tapped the key strung on a ribbon around her neck.

The man cringed. “Saint Armentarius be my witness, I didn't see your sign.…”

Doucette squawked at her rescuer.

Mahalt limped to the edge of the pond. Like a bird's dragging wing, the blue cloak hem brushed her fine leather shoes. Strangely, her awkward gait only intensified the elegance of her face and dress.

“As well I came,” she said in the same level, terrifying voice, “and averted a costly misunderstanding.”

“Yes, my lady.” The miller scooped up the sopping bundle of net and bird and water weed and set it at the woman's feet. “Your pardon, Lady Mahalt. I never—”

“Go,” she said.

“My lady.” He bowed. Then, seizing each of the boys by an ear, he hustled them into the mill. The door banged shut.

The woman folded her arms.

Doucette shifted her weight. She arched her neck and poked her orange beak through the net.

Mahalt slipped off the blue cloak and held it open in front of her. “Change,” she said.

There was no question of disobeying that voice. Doucette changed. Like the first time she returned to her human shape, she lay gasping for several moments before her skin felt the right size. When she could control her legs, she stood up and kicked the net away. Clutching her muddy swan skin, she draped the offered cloak around herself and curtsied as best she could. “Tante Mahalt. Thank you. I … I—” She stuttered to a halt.

Her aunt looked like an older, colder version of Azelais. Silver streaked the two long black braids that shone in the sunlight, iridescent as a magpie's feathers. Fine lines radiated from the corners of her dark eyes; the wine-red lips were set in a disapproving expression. Again, Doucette's aunt touched the key strung around her neck. “Reckless girl, flying without a sign. You're Pascau's youngest?”

“Yes. I'm Doucette.”

Mahalt's eyebrows arched. “Where are Azelais and Cecilia? Did Sarpine keep them this year?”

“No, they're riding with an escort of Father's armsmen, as usual.”

The dark gaze rested on Doucette with a palpable weight. “You've not come to me before.”

“Mother hid my swan skin.” Doucette studied her muddy feet. She felt grubby and small as she pleaded for understanding. “I have to learn magic, Tante Mahalt. Azelais and Cecilia have had all these years, and I didn't—I have to know. Please, don't send me home.”

“Not until you've learned to take better care in your swan form.” Her aunt frowned at the discarded net. “If my sister-in-law hoped to hide your true nature forever, she deluded herself, and Pascau was twice a fool to humor her.” She fixed Doucette with a stern look. “Fortunately for you, I wondered why a lone swan hadn't the courtesy to pay her respects. Without my intervention, you'd be dead or wed. Neither of the miller's boys is a prize.”

“Yes, Tante. I'm sorry.” For no reason, Doucette thought of Jaume's unexpected offer. Should she have stayed and listened? He could have taken her swan skin outright, but he hadn't. And, unlike the miller's boys, Jaume was so handsome … kind, too. Usually, anyway. Doucette bowed her head to hide the heat creeping up her cheeks. No doubt a sorceress should have loftier matters than a shepherd to occupy her thoughts.

“Come.” Mahalt's long skirt flared as she stalked away from the millpond. Despite the limp, she set a swift pace.

Doucette hurried down the muddy track after her aunt. They left the mill village and entered a stand of cedar and pine, where the air smelled of wet leaves and wood violets. Patches of granular snow still flecked the ground under the trees. Spring came later to Luzerna's mountains than it did to Beloc's lowland valleys.

Ahead, the faint sound of the washerwomen's voices rose over the chuckle of running water. Before they reached the source of either noise, Mahalt turned and picked her way through the trees to a squat stone tower. Beyond the tower, a wide stream drained a soggy meadow to the river.

Mahalt took the key from her neck and unlocked the tower's only door. Doucette would have followed her aunt inside, but Mahalt shook her head. “I flew after you in haste,” she said. “The clothing remains for the next time I require it. Give me the cloak.”

The breeze whipped through the pine trees behind the tower and laid cold fingers on Doucette's arms and legs. Shivering, she held tightly to her swan skin, which gave off the dank aroma of millpond, and waited until her aunt reemerged carrying a black swan skin.

Although Mahalt wore nothing more than the key around her neck and her shining hair for garment, the older woman maintained her self-possessed air. “I built several of these towers on my land to keep my swan skin safe. I advise you to do the same when you establish yourself.”

“Yes, Tante Mahalt.” Doucette stared at her aunt's bare feet, one of which was oddly set on her ankle. The malformed limb didn't appear to cause her pain, but Doucette felt a pang of sympathy.

Mahalt locked the tower door and draped the ribbon over the latch. She cocked her head at Doucette. “What, are you waiting for me to part the waters? We fly to the castle, Niece. Change.”

“Yes, Tante.” For the third time, Doucette donned her swan skin, welcoming the heat that surged the length of her body, turned her inside out, and left her standing on two webbed feet.

Oh, but she itched! Swan-Doucette unfurled her wings and preened, rooting out flakes of dirt and pond weed. Fastidiously, she nibbled each gray-tipped plume into place.

In one fluid motion, Mahalt threw her feathered coat over her shoulders. Her shape rippled and changed into that of a black swan. Like heraldic markings, two white bands barred each glossy wing.

Doucette thought her aunt's swan shape as beautiful as her human form, marred only by one damaged foot. But lameness didn't matter, Doucette reminded herself, once a swan was flying.

Swan-Mahalt thrust her head through the dangling ribbon and twisted her neck until the key dangled over her breast. She signaled to Doucette with an imperious glance.

Together, the black swan and the white waddled to the water. Feet pattering, wings beating, they leaped into the air.

Chapter Ten

“Again,” Mahalt said.

“Yes, Tante.” As if the magic she sought might be hiding in the maze of branches overhead, Doucette stared upward, then scratched her cheek. The feathers of her swan skin, which she wore slung over her shoulders like a cape, kept brushing against her, distracting her from the matter at hand.

Her fingers curled over the wand Tante Mahalt had given her. Dark with age, the polished oak felt slippery.

Gathering her scattered thoughts, Doucette touched the wand to a twig laid out on the gravel before her.

Be applewood spoon,

wide-bowled,

long-handled,

sanded smooth and fine,

until I release thee from that shape.

The twig shimmered and changed. One end spread wide and dimpled into a bowl; the other arched up in an elegant curve.

Doucette held her breath. Unlike the overwhelming sensation she felt when she donned her swan skin, the wand tickled her fingertips with the barest echo of magic. Was it enough? Would the enchantment hold?

With a loud snapping sound, her spell came undone. The spoon shape contracted to applewood twig, its bark as knobby as before. Along the twig's length, tiny leaves drooped as if they, too, despaired of Doucette's success.

“Not quite,” Mahalt said.

Doucette groaned with frustration. “I don't understand. What am I doing wrong?”

Doucette's aunt tapped her lip thoughtfully. Sunlight gleamed on her black-and-silver hair; rings glinted on her fingers. “You have the eye, Doucette,” she said. “Your spoons are the right size, and their proportions are good. From Azelais's first attempts, one would think your sister had spent her life eating with her fingers.”

“I've polished enough spoons to know the shape,” Doucette said. “Mother's particular about her silver.”

“Sarpine would be,” Mahalt said.

Doucette poked the ground with her wand. “Then why don't my spells stick?”

“Three qualities are required to work magic.” Mahalt ticked them off on her fingers. “An observant eye, a clear mind, and a strong will. It's no small matter, Niece, to impose your intent over the Creator's.”

“Is that why clerics frown on sorcery?” Doucette asked. “Brother Martin lectured Azelais and Cecilia no end when he caught them casting spells after a service.”

Mahalt's eyebrows drew together. “Depends on the spell, depends on the cleric. Like many other gifts—wealth, or beauty, or an eloquent tongue—sorcery can be corrupted. When we employ our powers without regard to our fellow creatures, we risk our immortal souls.”

Doucette ran her thumb down the wand. “How do you know whether you're using your magic wisely?”

Mahalt's dark gaze held Doucette's. “How do you judge any of your actions?”

“Brother Martin says our conscience should guide us.”

“The trick is to listen to it,” Mahalt said. “As your powers grow, it's tempting to think you can solve every problem with magic. But does Animating your loom keep the village weaver from earning her bread? Does paying your accounts in false coin ruin your neighbors?” One elegant shoulder lifted. “Transforming twigs into spoons is a fairly harmless occupation. Try another.”

“Yes, Tante.”

Doucette tried again.

And again.

And again.

None of her spoons held its shape for more than a moment. She kept at it, but her eyes were scratchy with unshed tears when a dove fluttered over the castle wall and perched on Mahalt's shoulder.

The little bird stroked its beak against the sorceress's cheek and cooed.

Mahalt cocked her head at a listening angle and nodded once. “Thank you, my lovely,” she said, smoothing the dove's gray feathers. “Go your way. I'll see to them.”

“Who's come?” Doucette asked as the bird took wing.

“Your sisters.” Leaning against an apple tree, Mahalt stood and shook out her skirts.

Worry and anticipation battled within Doucette as she tucked her wand into her sleeve and followed her limping aunt across the courtyard. Over the past few days, she had wondered whether Azelais and Cecilia knew about her swan skin. Would they be surprised? Pleased to see her? Or would they be angry that she, too, had come to stake a claim on their aunt's crown?

Mahalt stopped and rested her ringed hand against the far wall. She murmured words Doucette couldn't hear.

With the blur that heralded magic-working, a pair of tall wooden doors appeared within the stone blocks. Noiselessly, the doors swung wide. As she stepped through the opening, Mahalt flicked her niece an amused glance.

Doucette closed her open mouth. She watched Mahalt kneel on a wide lip of stone that extended past the other side of the doors, over the river. The sorceress dipped her hand into the flowing Immeluse and spoke again.

The water flashed with rainbow color, and twin waves curled away from Mahalt's hand. Majestically, like a court lady curtsying, the Immeluse drew back her foaming skirts. A glistening pathway of wet stone opened in the center of the riverbed.

“Come, Doucette.”

With a whoosh of air, Doucette let go the breath she had been holding and followed her aunt downstream.

A dozen horsemen and two women awaited at the ford. Horses stamped and blew at the currents of water swirling along each bank. Their riders looked only a little less unnerved by the river's behavior.

Cecilia leaped from her mount. Tossing the mare's reins to an armsman, she danced along the riverbed. One hand held up her travel bag; the other waved wildly. At every step, a feathery white cape fluttered against her back.

“Tante Mahalt! Tante Mahalt!” she cried. “We're here at last! The road stretches longer every year, or maybe it's—Doucette?” Cecilia's voice swooped upward. She dropped her bag, seized Doucette's arms, and shook her. “Is that you?”

“Good afternoon, Cecilia.” Doucette tried to keep her voice steady even as her teeth rattled from her sister's impetuous greeting. “Azelais.”

“Tante Mahalt.” Azelais had dismounted more sedately. Her travel gown showed few wrinkles, despite the days of riding, and the swan skin draped over her shoulders shone as glossy a black as her coiled hair. She curtsied politely to their aunt before turning on Doucette. “What business could
you
possibly have at the Château de l'Île? Why aren't you home making cheese or hemming linens?”

“And however did you get here before us?” Cecilia added.

“I flew,” Doucette said.

Azelais snorted in disbelief.

Doucette turned so they could see her swan skin.

“From Beloc?” Cecila's rosebud lips made an O of surprise. “How did you manage it? An afternoon on the wing exhausts me completely.”

Azelais's dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Where'd you come by a swan skin? And when?” Her hands curled into claws. “You sly creature! Why didn't you ever wear it? To curry favor with Mother?”