The Flight of Swans

by Sarah McGuire

  “You’re drawing Ionwyn’s story, aren’t you?”

  The Ri crouched down for a closer look.

  I swept my hand over the drawing, frightened he’d guess the truth of my own story.

  He sat beside me on the stone floor and gently batted my hand away. “Let me see, Lady Wyn. It’s a fine swan. Why would you be ashamed of it?”

  I blinked at him, sooty hands held in front of me.

  I’d decided days ago that loving the Ri was no excuse to hope he’d love me—or reason to falter in my goal. My brothers weren’t yet free. The last tunic wasn’t finished. I’d hold my love inside me the same way I’d held my words. I’d ask nothing of him, expect nothing from him, for what could I give in return? Silence? A nettle tunic?

  Best to hold him at a distance.

  And yet I still blushed to be caught like a child, playing in the dirt.

  The Ri’s gaze dropped to my dirty hands, and he half-smiled.

  “Here in Eyre, our artists do not—” He stopped to think and swiped a broad finger through the soot. “They don’t create animals or people like the swan you’ve drawn. At least not as you see them.” He swept an arc on the stone before him. “But the plaits they draw!”

  He dipped the forefinger of his other hand in the soot and swept another arc near the first, creating one of the complex knots I’d seen in their books and metalwork that merchants had brought to Lacharra.

  Though knot could hardly describe what the Ri drew. It was fluid as a river as it curled over itself. He continued to expand the knot, and I was grateful it required his attention. I couldn’t concentrate when the Ri watched me.

  “Ionwyn,” he continued, “would tell you our knots represent people whose lives are twined together.” Another curling loop. “The priest would tell you of two worlds, tumbled over each other. And I?” He paused, looking down at what he’d created. “I wonder what it would be like to walk the braid like a path. To turn and turn again and cut back over the road you’d just walked. You might never see the pattern of it—you’d be too close.” He cleared his throat, then looked up at me with a soft smile. “Or perhaps, Lady Wyn, our plaits are something lovely to look at, a reminder that life isn’t all sweat and soot.”

  Did he think I was lovely to look at? Surely not.

  He laughed and returned to his artwork. “Ah! I’ve done a poor job of it, Lady Wyn.”

  I didn’t know whether he meant the compliment or the knot.

  “A true artist would have joined the two ends so that they looked like a single cord.”

  The braid seemed perfect to me. I reached out to trace it myself.

  “I ask a boon of you, Lady Wyn,” said the Ri. “Draw me a story.”

  I looked up from the soot-braid he’d drawn.

  “Draw me part of your story.”

  Images of swans and curses filled my mind. But I couldn’t show him that. It was too close to the truth.

  “Your father?” prompted the Ri, his question soft, as if he feared he’d frighten me. “What was he like?”

  I stared down at the stone before me. If the Ri had spoken again—if he’d even sighed—I would have refused. But he sat so still I could almost believe he wasn’t there, that I wasn’t revealing a secret.

  And then I knew what to draw.

  I dipped a finger in the soot and sketched a few lines on the stone before me.

  “A book,” said the Ri. “He read to you?”

  I understood his surprise: only the wealthy possessed books. Now he knew that about me. But that one small image opened a floodgate. I drew a stack of books. Then, heart in my throat, I drew a girl in her father’s lap, a book before them.

  It was a horrible sketch—the rough texture of the stone made the lines swim. But it was a gift, somehow. It was the first time I’d remembered Father—his true self—before the Queen arrived.

  The Ri smiled at the picture. “No wonder Ionwyn enjoys your company. Anyone who loves books will be a friend of hers. And is the stone you wear from him?”

  I looked at him, puzzled.

  “Around your neck,” he prompted.

  The Kingstone fragment. I leaned back, hand covering where it lay beneath my bodice as if I could protect it from questions.

  I shook my head. I can’t tell you any more.

  He held a hand up. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain, Lady Wyn! Will you tell me of your mother instead?”

  I paused, but eventually drew a woman, belly swollen with child. I pointed to her belly and then to me. Finally, I swept a hand over the woman so that she became a blur.

  “Ionwyn told me she died birthing you?”

  A nod.

  After a moment, he said, “I think, Lady Wyn, there must have been goodness in her, to bring you into the world.”

  I smiled. Yes.

  The Ri looked down at the smear, seeing something else.

  I swept my hand over the nearby stone to pull him from his thoughts.

  He looked up, and I tapped my temple.

  “Your head?”

  No.

  I closed my eyes as if concentrating, then opened them again.

  “You mean thinking?”

  Yes.

  I could have pointed at him. I should have. But perhaps I felt bold because of the dim room or the story I’d just heard.

  Instead, I touched his temple, right where his gold hair curled back from his face.

  The Ri grew completely still, as if any movement would send me back to the forest.

  And perhaps it would have.

  “I don’t know what you’re asking, Lady Wyn,” he whispered, his gaze dancing from my face, and then to my hand, still close to his own face.

  After a moment, I tapped his temple again, then pointed to him.

  “My thoughts?” he asked. “You want to know what I was thinking?”

  Yes.

  He sobered, and I saw that the stillness inside him had fled. “I asked you to draw me a story, and you have, so I’ll not deny you. But I fear you’ll think me a brute.”

  I half-smiled and shook my head, fist over my heart, reminding him of his honor. He chuckled.

  “Very well then, Lady Wyn.” He met my gaze squarely, as if facing a judge. “I was thinking your memories of a good mother are better than the presence of a heartless one.”

  I blinked at him. What had his mother been like?

  He pressed on, resolute. “And I envied you your memories. Now, will you still suffer the hospitality of such an ungrateful son?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s a relief, then,” he announced.

  And I could see that it was. Before I could move, he pointed to my temple, where I’d tapped it. “You left soot on your face, trying to explain yourself to an idiot.”

  His fingers were as soot-covered as my own, but not his palms. He gently wiped the heel of his hand against my temple.

  If I’d grown up as a princess, I’d have been used to flirtation. I would know how to hold a man’s gaze, or what to whisper to make him laugh—or come closer. I might have even managed to escape the notice of all my brothers and meet a suitor for a breathless kiss in a corridor.

  Yet there I was, nearly eighteen summers, past marrying age, and I blushed to feel the prince’s hand on my face.

  The Ri smiled. “There you are, Lady Wyn.”

  Before I could move, he stood. “I’ll leave you in peace. But I thank you for your stories. I hope you draw more.”

  And then he was gone.

  The next morning, parchment and ink were delivered to my room.

  Chapter 49

  “Lady Wyn.”

  I looked up from my spinning, lowering my work so that the drop spindle touched the ground.

  It was Finn, hands clasped behind his back, a wretched expression on his face as if he could barely hold bad news inside him.

  I leaped to my feet, my nettle yarn and spindle in a heap at my feet.

  Carrick?

  “No, lass! The little
man’s playing in mud like an otter.” Yet he looked down, shifting his weight from boot to boot.

  Was the man sick?

  I touched his shoulder. What’s wrong?

  Finn squared his shoulders. “It’s the Ri.” He saw my alarm and rushed on. “He’s well too, Lady Wyn, never you fear.”

  I held my hands out, palms up. What, then?

  Finn scowled fiercely, working up to what? I imagined he’d looked more pleasant going into battle beside the Ri.

  “I can’t do this, Lady Wyn. I shouldn’t. I bid you good day.” Finn turned on his heel and marched away.

  I grabbed his arm and jabbed a finger at the bench. Sit!

  Finn did, reluctantly. I sat beside him, but he just clasped and unclasped his gnarled hands. Finally, he looked me in the eye. When I saw his grief and resolve, I almost told him to forget what he was going to say.

  Instead, I gathered the nettle yarn and spindle, grateful to attend to something else.

  “Aye, that’ll make it easier, I think. You watch your yarn. I’ll watch the horizon and tell you what must be said.”

  I nodded and set the spindle whirling as if the seven kingdoms of Eyre depended on it.

  “I’ve come to tell you about Corbin,” began Finn. “If I had Ionwyn’s way with words, you’d hear harp music as I spoke. And you should, lass, for it’s the story of a good man.”

  I watched him, intent to hear Corbin’s story. I motioned that Finn should go on.

  “Corbin is a king disgraced, and his people love him for it. I’ve loved him as if he was my own son since his father died.”

  Finn seemed uneasy with me watching him so closely, so I made a show of concentrating on the cloud of nettle fiber as it slid toward the drop spindle. Finally, Finn relaxed.

  “Corbin’s father was a good man. His goodness was in his marrow, and Corbin inherited that from him. His mother was a stranger to us, her kin unknown, but Corbin’s father couldn’t look away from her.” He met my eyes. “I confess, lass, there was something about her—a glory you couldn’t get enough of. You didn’t mind her reaching into your heart, until you discovered her fingers were tangled in your heartstrings and she didn’t care what she tore. I learned not to listen to her, and so I kept my heart safe. Other men were not so lucky.”

  I nodded.

  He spoke as if the words had an unpleasant flavor. “Seven years ago, a man Corbin’s mother had taken as a lover was found dead, stabbed in the back. She didn’t deny that she’d lain with him or that she killed him. She vowed he’d threatened her—as if any man could make her fearful!—and that she killed him to protect herself. There were no witnesses to the killing, and the man was known for his vile disposition.” Finn shook his head. “But the back! There was a vileness about that, as well. So the Advocate decreed that the queen should be banished for five years and an honor price be paid to the man’s family. I think the king’s heart shattered. He died the day he learned all his queen had done.”

  I looked up from my spinning. A judge would rule against the royalty?

  Finn saw my astonishment.

  “Ah, at times I forget you’re not of Eyre. No matter which of the kingdoms, the Ri is subject to an Advocate’s ruling, just as any man. But an althech fortha can bear the judgment for royalty: the honor price is paid, yet the king’s honor isn’t belittled. The cousin who could have acted as the dead king’s althech fortha refused. He wouldn’t risk the farm his sons would inherit to cover the queen’s dishonor.

  “Corbin wouldn’t leave the price unpaid, so he became the althech fortha for his dead father. At fifteen summers, he surrendered almost half his father’s land as payment. Connach saw the opportunity as a chance to rule himself, and the chiefs might have chosen him to be the new Ri, if not for the raiders. But the raiders struck before the chiefs could choose. Corbin fought bravely—and with a poor man’s sword. No raider could pass him, and I was proud to fight beside him.”

  Finn stretched his legs before him. “The chiefs chose him as their Ri, even though he had borne the weight of the judgment against his father.”

  I signed a question.

  “No, his mother never returned, so much the better for Corbin! And he’s been a good Ri ever since, though Connach never made it easy for him, as you can guess.”

  I could. It explained Connach’s bitterness, why he’d pushed so hard to challenge the Ri after Moyle attacked me.

  And I couldn’t help but love the Ri a little more.

  Finn gazed at his boots. “Ah, lass, out of respect, I’ll say this quickly—a clean cut by a sharp blade. Do you understand me?”

  I fed the nettle fiber into the twist created by the whirling spindle, saw the cloud of strands tighten into yarn, but all I could hear was the grief in Finn’s voice.

  I nodded.

  “You’re not good for the Ri.” He inhaled through his nose. “I see his face when he looks at you, and don’t I know his face and his moods well? I’ve been father and mother to him all these years.”

  Any other time, I’d have laughed at the idea of Finn mothering anyone, but I couldn’t think beyond You’re not good for the Ri.

  A clean cut, indeed. And deep too.

  “There’s been muttering among the chiefs about the Ri favoring a girl without kin or speech, despite me knocking heads together. Not all of them, mind you! But enough, enough.”

  The nettle fiber still slid through my fingers—I’d spun too many years to let the yarn thin and break—but my vision blurred till I spun by feel alone.

  “You won a place among us when you confronted Connach. But a place beside the Ri is different from a place among his people, and you know it. Corbin’s strong enough and stubborn enough that he’d choose you anyway.”

  I blinked once . . . twice, till the yarn came back into focus. The world blurred, as if the spindle stood still and everything else turned. But I was proud—so proud!—that I’d kept the yarn smooth and even.

  “So please, Lady Wyn,” said Finn, “don’t let him choose you.”

  I caught the spindle and wound the new yarn around the base. Then I set it spinning again, feeding the fiber into the twist as if nothing had happened.

  Finn sat still, though I knew he was watching. Waiting. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I won’t press you for an answer, Lady Wyn. I know you think me rough, but I’m not cruel. Just know he needs the support of all his chiefs. There’s rumor of war in the air.”

  I looked up.

  “There’s a country across the water. Lacharra—”

  The spindle fell, still spinning, to the ground and danced there for a moment like a top. Lacharra. So the Queen had her wars after all.

  I quickly gathered the fiber, spindle, and yarn into my lap.

  “—the king of Lacharra is stretching his borders the way a child spreads his arms when he wakes. I fear we’ll have to deal with them soon, and Corbin can’t afford to have his chiefs divided.” He put a hand on my arm. “He himself can’t afford to be divided.”

  Divided! I felt I was being torn to pieces: the Ri, the chiefs, my brothers’ tunics, the enchantment.

  I looked down at the spindle in my lap.

  I’d been a princess. I was sister and aunt. Mad maid from the forest. Connach’s challenger and victor. And perhaps the Ri’s love.

  No. I was the Swan-Keeper—and when my brothers were men, I’d be the princess of Lacharra once more.

  This time, I would not forget it.

  When Finn walked away, I lifted the spindle with shaking hands and set it spinning again. There was a familiarity to the action that steadied me.

  I couldn’t help Lacharra until I freed my brothers. In the meantime, I could free the Ri. Ionwyn had said that royalty in Eyre protected their own.

  The Ri was as much a part of me as breath and blood—I would not have him hurt.

  I would not let more countries suffer as the Queen waged her wars.

  So I spun the nettle yarn the rest of that aft
ernoon and into the evening. When the Ri asked me to draw for him, I did not set the yarn aside.

  Chapter 50

  I took my time that winter, spinning the yarn for Owain’s tunic. It helped to have the spindle whirling before me when the Ri asked me to draw. All I had to do was shake my head no and nod at the yarn as my excuse.

  I longed to look up and explain myself, but what had Finn said? A clean cut by a sharp blade. So I remained bent over the yarn. Besides, I didn’t want him to see the tears in my eyes. One night, when the wind beat against the walls of the great hall, he saw the spindle and didn’t even speak to me.

  Once the yarn was spun—more than enough for one tunic!—I knit so slowly I was ashamed of myself. But my slow pace kept the Ri respected among his chiefs. It kept him safe from me.

  I finished Owain’s tunic the spring night before the Ri left to visit the chiefs who ruled beneath him. While Ionwyn spun a story about the beautiful maiden Deidre and the wars waged by the men who loved her, I joined the sleeves to the body of the tunic. I spread the tunic across my lap with trembling hands as the last words of her tale hung in the air.

  I was finished.

  Here was the last of my brothers’ redemption, spread out on my lap. Conversations became a low thrumming, like bees deep in their hive. That seemed right, somehow. The tunics had been created in silence. How fitting that they would be finished in it.

  Finally, I looked up—and met the Ri’s gaze.

  He’d seen me finish the tunic. I plucked up the tunic and checked it for any holes or thin spots that might keep Owain from becoming a man again. I didn’t look up till the last footsteps had faded from the hall.

  I wasn’t alone.

  The Ri hadn’t been fooled. He stood near the fire, waiting for me. “You’ve finished the last one. I’d have known from the look on your face, even if I hadn’t watched you make it all winter.”

  I didn’t answer, by look or sign.

  “You could’ve made it in a month’s time. But you didn’t want to, did you?”

  He’d known all along!