by Prue Batten
‘Adelina…’ Lhiannon placed a tentative hand on her friend’s arm. ‘Jasper found them. He took them both to the Ymp Trees. Mogu carried Kholi.’
Adelina could not cry. She felt like a dried up oasis in the middle of the Amritsands and a hot Symmer wind swirled through her, crisping the edges of her psyche. Moulding and shaping hatred like a mound of sand before the howling desert wind. Finally she spoke. ‘Then if you are not here to release me yet, why are you here? What does Jasper want?’
‘The souls. The souls must be returned to Faeran or the bodies will be caught in some ghastly frozen tableau, hunched and crushed in whatever ugly position they died. Never to be laid out and given a Faeran farewell. The water that they float on in their funeral barge would dry up. The flames of the arrows flying towards their floating pyre would burn out. If we buried them, the soil would fly from the sidh and they would lie uncovered. If we built a cairn over them with rocks, the boulders would tumble down revealing their unfortunate empty husks.’
Adelina said nothing for a moment, her face white, her heart crushed into a million grains of sand. But lacking wailing tears, she needed to pitch her gall at something, someone. ‘Why isn’t your great Jasper here himself? Why can’t the old man get the souls through some enchantment or other and free me in the process? Isn’t he supposed to be all-powerful, infallible, whatever the damned hell you like?’
‘Because the prophecy says not, Adelina, and one must never defy Fate. This is the way it must be.’
‘Prophecy? What prophecy? I don’t care a fig for some vacuous Faeran prophecy! Aine, I have lost the love of my life!’ Adelina stood and began to stride down the walk. Lhiannon hurried to catch up, her black hair beginning to slide from its bun.
Hatred flooded like white-hot lava and filled every sinew of the embroiderer’s body, her legs racing to cover the ground. ‘She will pay, Lhiannon. Prophecy or no, she will pay with her life!’
***
I need to show you how shattered I am, to make you understand.
But how?
By the paper that is torn by the nib of the pen as I scrawl the words across. By the agitated spatters of ink?
By the tears that splash and smear my very words?
Would it help to know that I have ripped one sheet of paper already, into tiny pieces of confetti, ripped and ripped as if the paper was Severine and I tore her apart?
Prophecy be damned!
I idealized Jasper of the Faeran! I thought he was infallible, capable of anything, the least being to secure those unfortunate souls, to rescue us, surely that was within the scope of his eldritch skill.
But the old man is confronted by some vapid vision and folds. I hate him! I hate everyone!
Chapter Thirty Nine
Lhiannon and Adelina sat side by side at the worktable.
Adelina demanded Lhiannon’s help with her work. She had reminded Luther how adamant Severine had been that work with the black fabric begin on the morrow. She was sure he did not want to be the cause of her being unable to start, she said persuasively and he locked them both back in the room. They sat quietly for a while and then Lhiannon gave a nod; Luther had moved away down the winding stone stair. Adelina opened one of her drawers and pulled out a length of weighty black satin and placed it beside the souls, flinching in case her fingers touched them, unable to believe one was Liam’s. Oh help me, she thought, Aine help me, I cannot do this. Faintness blurred her vision and numbed her hands as she remembered Liam searching for Kholi, of the two being found by Luther and Severine. Of what ensued...
Her hand flew to her throat. By heavens, I know how my love died. She choked, evoking what Kholi must have felt and began to cough as if her lungs would fly out of her mouth; gutwrenching hacks. She bent over the table, her head hanging. Lhiannon placed a hand on her arm and softness crept up to her shoulder, over her breast and into her heart, her focus shifting away from the horror. She glanced at Lhiannon gratefully. ‘Take the souls and this will suffice to replace them. Quickly.’
Lhiannon drew out a small grey chamois pouch and with trembling fingers placed the precious things inside and tucked it in her bodice.
Adelina watched, her mind running fast. ‘You must get away and I have had a thought.’ She grabbed her toile skirt and slid it around to the image of a waterfowl. There, glowing in the afternoon light was the black feather Liam had given her. ‘It is a feather from a swan-maid. Liam said I could use it if I ever needed help. What do you think?’
‘It may work,’ Lhiannon was circumspect, ‘although swan-maids are not renowned for their love of the Faeran but we have little choice.’ She grabbed Adelina’s hand in pinching fingers. ‘Ssh! Be quiet, Luther returns.’
‘Tomorrow in the garden then, yes?’
Lhiannon nodded and picked up scissors to snip threads.
The midday sun shone palely in a water-washed blue sky. Adelina had once again not slept, choosing to write with a feverishness fuelled by the fires of hatred. To sew that morning had been a trial beyond belief as she cut the satin to mimic the souls and sewed the first piece underneath a design of a black thistle she had placed on the back of the garment. The Raji knots she plied back and forth to give the semblance of the thistle head were difficult and at one point, she bled on the fabric of the robe. She swore and hastily dropped some spit onto the stain, dabbing it gently. In some alchemist’s miracle, the blood faded and disappeared and the fabric returned to its pristine form. She constantly glanced at the sun outside the window, longing for midday and wondering why Lhiannon had not come. They needed to talk for what would she, an embroiderer, know of feathers and summoning swan-maids?
At midday precisely, with the sun directly overhead, the door unlocked and Luther pushed it open. Lhiannon stood just behind him, her arm hooked under the handle of a rush basket. Adelina flung down her sewing and tried not to hurry to the door. Remain the same. Be what I am. Sullen, angry… murderous. It was all she could do not to grab her scissors and run screaming at Luther’s throat, to stab, stab and stab again...
‘Meriope has brought your food. I will collect you in an hour.’ He strode ahead and they followed, not acknowledging each other at all.
Once the garden gate had shut and Lhiannon had given the signal all was safe, Adelina pounced on her. ‘Where have you been? I needed to talk.’
Lhiannon stayed under the canopy of a spreading cherry tree. Its blossom cast a wide white awning and she could speak freely. ‘Severine was in one of her compulsive moods - polish, polish more and then polish again. She followed my every move until Luther reminded her it was midday and you needed your walk and food, to which she gave grudging way. What is wrong?’
‘I don’t know how to use the feather and we have so little time.’ Adelina chafed.
‘Worry not.’ She grabbed Adelina lightly by the arm. ‘Let’s go to the pond, there is a willow which will shield us. Quickly.’
The willow branches had just sprouted lime green leaves. Tiny pendules of green-white blossom filled the air with a heady scent, the sounds of bees sucking at the pollen droned lazily from under the weeping branches. The leafy curtain closed about the two women like the folds of a tent. By the side of the huge pond, myrtle flag and water plantain spread over the banks. The racemes of swamp lily spiked into the air and the placid waters of the pond were coated in the dark, floating leaves of the water hawthorn. A secret pond, it was a place for swan-maids and Others.
‘Adelina,’ Lhiannon’s hand gripped the woman’s arm. ‘The feather, quickly.’
Adelina eased away the threads she had cut earlier and handed the glistening flight feather to the Faeran girl. ‘What if she’s on the other side of Eirie?’
‘It makes no difference. It’s an oddity. If you call, they can be instantly here. Now watch.’
Lhiannon held the feather by the sharp quill and carefully brought it to her mouth. She blew gently on its length. Each delicate individual piece of the whole danced and fluttered as her sweet breath
drifted over it, to sink gracefully back to form the one long feather again.
‘And?’ Adelina hands twisted together.
‘We wait.’
The air beneath the willow was sweet and clean. Light dappled the water and shore and the pendulous branches undulated, finding a puff of air where there would seem to be none. The luminous wings of dragonflies beat in front of the two women but neither noticed, too nervous to speak, too desperate to move. On the other side of the pond, water fowl splashed and duck-dived for a feed of water beetle and worm. Frogs set up a croaking chorus and the mirrored surface was occasionally marked by a series of unexplained concentric rings. Calmness prevailed as Adelina chewed at the torn skin on her fingers and Lhiannon palmed the feather back and forth. A honking cry echoed above the garden and the two women looked up.
A black swan flew over the wall, skimming it lightly. She slid along the slick surface of the pond, feet sinking to paddle through the water, wings folding gracefully. The long neck stretched up, bending at the head, the red beak defined against the sable of the splendid feathered coat. She glided toward the willow, under the branches and to the shore. A leg stepped out of the pond and as she walked forward she shifted from bird to woman, the winged mantle sliding down her arms, to hang like a magnificent cloak from elbow to elbow. ‘Thy call was heard, Lhiannon of the Faeran, although it was not thine to make.’ She turned the long white face, utterly symmetrical and beyond beauteous, toward Adelina. ‘So. Thy soul is as empty as husk of Liam. Black feathers echo black heart. Thou has inherited Maeve’s feather, what dost thou want of Maeve Swan Maid?’
Adelina, heart tender and sore, remembered when she had last met the woman as she had sat with Kholi by the lake at Star. ‘It’s simple,’ she said with as much respect as she could manage. ‘Lhiannon has retrieved Liam’s and Elriade’s souls from that witch and must get away. Can you help?’
Maeve Swan Maid moved around them as they sat under the willow. She glided, her black robe trailing behind, the feathery cloak still draping from elbow to elbow. She spoke to Lhiannon, her tone iced and unkind. ‘If Maeve gives thou flying cloak, thou may not give it back and Maeve will remain here in this garden unable to return to her form. For surely the only answer is that thou fly away.’
Adelina broke in. ‘She’s slight. Could you not carry her?’
‘Stupid mortal! Swan has small strength and would never be able to fly with Faeran astride. Maeve is not beast of burden nor friend of Faeran.’ She snaked her head at them and then turned away.
‘But we have asked for your help. You are obliged to honour the debt.’
Maeve Swan Maid turned again, fury marring the beauty. If she had been avian, Adelina had no doubt she would have approached with wings outstretched, hissing and spitting from the red mouth. As it was, the carmine lips drew back and invective in some form of Other language cascaded down upon them. Then, ‘Invidious Faeran stole Maeve’s feather and it has grieved and pained Maeve ever since. Why should swan-maid be obliged to do anything?’
Adelina sucked in a breath that was almost a sob. ‘Please…’
Maeve looked sideways at Adelina and their eyes met and held and then the swan-maid moved again, her black folds trailing over Adelina’s toes. ‘Maeve will honour debt because she wants to be free of all mortals. Thy trials are not hers and she would be gone. She knew love of Liam for mortal woman was fated. Stupid Faeran! But Maeve will save his soul and that of the Faeran girl’s sister because she honours all debts. She is a truly honourable Other. She has an idea. Come tomorrow and the answer will be here.’
‘Tomorrow,’ both women broke out in an anguished cry.
‘Tomorrow.’ Maeve turned away with finality and stepped into the water, not to be gainsaid. She became a swan as seamlessly as she had become a woman and began to swim away, the wings unfolding as she prepared to take flight. Within minutes she had glided up over the sea wall and was gone.
‘Tomorrow!’ Adelina whispered, aghast.
Lhiannon merely nodded, taking the embroiderer’s hand in her own as they sat and blindly watched the willow billow back and forth.
Chapter Forty
Adelina’s mood reflected the sky. As grey as grief. Except the sky had streaks of white in it, clouds of stratus which made the expanse of grey look like a piece of Venichese water-wave taffeta, fabric the cognoscenti adored. But there was no such relief of unmitigated grey in Adelina’s mood. Within hours she would have lost the only friend she had within this prison. And her life, without the hope of seeing Kholi again, stretched out before her like an expanse of wasteland. She had still not cried. Deep inside, a fire burned to be sure. But it was the fire of hate, of revenge, and that allowed no room for grief. Especially not grief for the love of one’s life. Even the uneasy melancholy that had ensued on Ana’s death had disappeared as the fires of hate consumed her. One thing shone like a beacon; the fact the souls would be out of Severine’s reach. That she would not achieve her dream of immortality. Not with the souls of Liam and Elriade. And as each day passed as she searched for more souls, she would grow older and more vulnerable and it would give Adelina time. Time to avenge deaths.
Midday arrived and no one came to collect her. She paced nervously, going from window to door. Afraid she would see the swan winging its way over the seawall and out again. She sat and tried to sew but could not concentrate and repeatedly pulled the needle free of its thread until she threw everything down in frustration. As she turned from the window again, she heard the key in the lock and turned, heart jumping.
Luther stood there.
Alone.
‘Come,’ he ordered. ‘And bring a coat, it’s cool.’
She grabbed a quilted jacket and hastened after him.
‘Where is... Meriope?’
‘Fetching a basket of food from the kitchens. She will meet us at the gate.’
Adelina closed her eyes in relief, feeling her way down the cool stonewall at the side of the stair. Her fingers brushed against large Raji carpets in jewel colours hanging on the circular walls. She hated that her prison was so beautifully appointed, so thoughtfully furnished, that it was comfortable, that the gardens were a delight. She wished everything was unmitigated horror, like some dracule’s castle, so she could hate more and feed her hate with more hate.
Lhiannon was at the gate and Adelina spoke to her in a surly tone. ‘I hope you didn’t bring the same apples as yesterday because they were floury and bitter. If your mistress wants my best work then she should feed me with due consideration.’
Lhiannon hung her head in a suitably chastised manner.
‘Your complaint is noted.’ Luther pushed Adelina in the gate and gave Lhiannon a little shove after her. ‘An hour.’ He glanced at them both and shut the large wooden gate behind him. They heard the key grind in the lock and knew he went to his place on the widow’s walk at the very top of the house where he could watch. Wasting no time, Lhiannon blew on the feather and the two women hurried to the warmer climes of the willow.
An oriental duck swam past as they took their places, neither speaking. The duck’s exotic black, white and chestnut plumage might have caught Adelina’s eye at another time, but instead she turned inward, not wanting to think about Lhiannon leaving. And then she could bear it no longer. ‘I’ll miss you and truth to tell, I’m not sure how I will manage without you.’ There. I have said it.
Lhiannon turned to her, her eyes kind. ‘Adelina, you are filled with courage. I have no doubt such strength will stand you in good stead. Things will work out in ways we could never imagine and we may see each other again. Trust me when I say you’ll not be alone. There are Others here, kind Others. We will find ways. You must rest easy.’
As she reached to tuck her hand inside Adelina’s arm, the willow branches undulated aside and the black swan glided through.
‘Oh!’ Adelina jumped off the seat. ‘We didn’t hear you.’
Maeve walked toward them, woman not swan. ‘Maeve is ever discrete a
nd does not trumpet presence.’ She looked directly at Lhiannon, a faint curl to the lips. ‘Art thou ready, Faeran?’
‘Yes.’ Lhiannon stood, the whip-thin body trembling like the petals of a fritillaria.
Maeve took a feather from inside the bosom of her gown and as Lhiannon had done earlier, blew gently down its length. The sable feather extended from its tip and grew, flowing to form a cloak of blackish green hue. It lay lightly on the swan-maid’s arm. ‘Thou art lucky Maeve felt sorrow for the souls of Faeran and placed an eloquent case before her sister maids. Another swan-maid agreed to lend her cloak and Maeve will guide, Faeran will fly.’ She passed the soft cloak to Lhiannon. ‘Adelina,’ Maeve turned to the embroiderer. ‘Thou can secure severe punishment for Severine from Others. We can tell thee how or if thou requires, Others shall do it for she is a murderer of our own.’
Adelina looked up at the beautiful white face with its calculating eyes and carmine mouth. If it had not been so flawlessly magnificent and Other, she would have thought there was a likeness to Severine.
‘No. Her punishment shall be mine to exact. Liam was my friend, Kholi was my love. And had Elriade not angered Severine by giving me the silk, it is possible she may have survived. No, I shall do this. I must. It will help cleanse my soul.’
‘And how wilt thou escape this place?’
‘I don’t know. I am in no hurry. I have the robe to finish in my own way and I must plan diligently. I shall take my time.’
‘Then it is time for thee to leave, Faeran. Put on swan’s-down.’
The feathery cloak slipped up Lhiannon’s arms. Adelina watched as the girl metamorphosed, her body shortening, the arms folding into black wings with white wing tips, her head with its black hair becoming the graceful, long-necked head of the swan. She waddled on red legs to the side of the pond and followed the swan-maid into the water. Briefly turning her head on the long willowy neck, she fixed Adelina with a friendly, very un-swan like eye and honked quietly. Adelina lifted her hand and mouthed ‘Good fortune.’
