The Black Swan

by Mercedes Lackey

  THE

  BLACK SWAN

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM SHEILA E. GILBERT PUBLISHERS

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  Copyright © 1999 by Mercedes R. Lackey All rights reserved.

  Jacket art by Jody A. Lee.

  For color prints of Jody Lee's paintings, please contact: The Cerridwen Enterprise P.O. Box 10161 Kansas City, MO 64111 Phone: 1-800-825-1281

  Frontispiece by Larry Dixon.

  DAW Books Collectors No. 1120.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Putnam, Inc. Book designed by Stanley S, Drate/Folio Graphics Co. Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper. ©

  First Printing, May 1999 123456789

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  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  Chapter One

  The newest girl had finally cried herself into exhaustion at last and slept, her tear-streaked face half hidden in her disordered hair, head cradled in the silken folds of Jeanette's midnight-colored skirt. Moonlight flattered her; if it had been the pitiless light of the sun that bathed her features, they would have been blotched red and altogether unattractive with three nights of hysterical weeping. The silvery light of the moon was more forgiving; it hid the red in her swollen eyes and cheeks, and turned the tears lingering on her lashes into drops of crystal, she looked pitiable, with a tragic, frail beauty that would have softened the heart of anyone but her captor, von Rothbart. His will was proof against any mere woman.

  It had certainly taken this wench long enough to reconcile herself to her situation. Odile would have liked to sigh with vexed impatience, but her father's training held firm, and she schooled her features into marble impassivity, keeping her gaze fixed at a vague point somewhere out on the moonlit lake. A cool zephyr touched the water, dissolving the reflected moon into dancing ripples.

  From the water's verge, a close-clipped lawn rose in a gentle incline toward her, punctuated with mathematically designed flower beds, perfectly shaped trees, and topiary bushes. Despite the beauty and tranquility of the manicured park land surrounding von Rothbart's dwelling, Odile would rather have been inside the manor, but her father's orders kept her here, watching carefully over the new one, to make certain she did herself no harm. One never knew; suicide was a mortal sin, but the fear of sin might not stop her.

  Three nights of steady weeping, three days of disconsolate drooping in the shadows of the great willow, ignoring food, company, comfort—I can't ever recall anyone but Odette taking that long to resign herself to her situation. After all, her position is hardly a tragedy—and she has only herself to blame for her captivity.

  The soft twitter of very young voices reminded her that some of the maids probably preferred their new life to their old. Odile couldn't see the youngest members of her father's flock, but she knew where they were; off in the shelter of the rose arbor to her left, weaving moonflowers into crowns or making dolls out of blossoms. Elke, Ilse, Lisbet, and Sofie were very happy as they were, and why shouldn't they be? They'd been grubby little peasant girls before they'd come into von Rothbart's flock. Here, instead of coarse shifts of linen and rough-woven skirts of wool, they had soft silk gowns that never grew shabby or dirty. Instead of toiling from dawn to dark in the hard labor of a peasant hut, mucking about in pigsties and cow byres, they were waited upon by Eric von Rothbart's invisible servants, their own duties only to wait in their turn upon Odette and Odile. Such service was a light burden; Odette required little of her handmaidens but company, and as often as not, she didn't even require that. As for Odile, she much preferred to do without their service and company altogether; the invisibles were far more satisfactory servants, and their company was deathly boring.

  Tonight, for instance, distressed by the new one's ceaseless caterwauling, Odette had retreated to the island in the middle of the lake before the change came upon them all. There she was, still as a white marble statue, as still as Odile herself, seated with folded hands in the shelter of the tiny "temple" in Greek mode that von Rothbart's fancy had placed there. The domed white roof and white columns glimmered in the moonlight; in her misty gown of pale silk, Odette could easily have been a statue or a spirit perched there, mourning the past glory of lost kingdoms, and not a living woman, mourning her own sins and losses.

  Her handmaidens, separated from her by the waters of the lake, conducted themselves much as they would have had she been among them. Some drifted through von Rothbart's gardens, some trailed bare feet in the cool water, some spoke in slow, sad voices, relating the same tales of their past they'd told twenty times before. A dozen, including Jeanette, hovered over the new one, inarticulately trying to comfort her, or at least bring her quiet resignation to her fate. In the soft, diffused moonlight, they all looked alike, all clothed in maidenly white, all differences of hair color and complexion silvered over into the same tones of ethereal white-blue, all movements in the same slow, graceful gestures, as if they all dwelt underwater. Like Odette, they could have been spirits—well, all but nine of them. Nine, including Jeanette and Odile, wore black instead of maidenly white. Eight of the nine wore their sober gowns in ceaseless mourning for what they had lost, in a vain attempt to wrest forgiveness from an unforgiving and implacable master. Odile wore black, because her father wished her to, to signify symbolically that she was no creature of Odette's retinue.

  Von Rothbart placed a great deal of importance in symbols; as a sorcerer, he knew the power they contained. As his daughter and only student, Odile had instinctively felt that same power before she had the words to articulate it.

  As his daughter, she would much rather have been inside the manor, watching him work or studying on her own. How could these women bear to spend so much time doing nothing?

  If I were to be charitable, I could assume that Father's enchantments fog their minds, or despair makes them too lethargic to care, she thought, scornfully, mimicking her father's attitude. But I think it likelier that they are unaccustomed to using their minds very much at all.

  A burst of muffled giggling came from the rose arbor, and the four little ones emerged to dance a solemn pavane on the grassy lawn as source-less music wafted through the garden, matching their steps to the soft notes. A few of the others joined them after a time, but Jeanette made no move to do the same, and Odette in her aloof isolation did not even change her position, though she certainly heard the music.

  Odile determined that the new acquisition was so exhausted by grief that she would likely sleep until dawn, and slipped away from the garden full of girls. With nothing to keep her among the idle maidens, she wanted only to get back to her studies, which at least had the value of novelty. The Great Hall drew her as a lodestone drew a needle, and she glided silently up the sharply carved stone steps, past the granite guardian owls perched on plinths to either side of the door, and eased the heavy oaken door open so that it did not creak and disturb her father at his own work.

  Within, the vast and echoing central hall lay deserted and practically unlit except for two torches in sconces on either side of the entrance. The faded, smoke-stained banners of conquered enemies long past, and liegemen long gone hung limply from the blackened beams above; if she had not known the subjects of the tapestries of dragons, wyverns, manticores, and other beasts that covered the walls, she would not have been able to make out the dim forms imperfectly picked out in tarnished gold thread and clouded gems. There was no fire, not ev
en ashes in the cold hearth, and the great wooden chairs arrayed along the walls held nothing but dust. Von Rothbart's magical servitors were singularly blind to the accumulation of mere dust unless she reminded them of their duty in that direction. She crossed the flagstone of the hall and passed into the next chamber, narrow guardroom, which was just as empty. Ahead of her, lights sprang into existence, as the invisible servants anticipated her direction. The library was next—also empty—then the stairs to her father's tower where he worked his magics and devised new ones. The tower door was locked, but no light shone from the crack beneath it; von Rothbart was not there. Nor was he in the cellar where some of his supplies were stored, or the dank and depressing dungeons, and when she checked other storerooms and even the stillroom, it was clear that she need not have gone to the trouble of trying to be as quiet as the servants. Von Rothbart was not in his residence.

  Odile considered the empty manor with some astonishment; there was only one likely reason for her father's absence, and he had never before gone a-hunting a new bird when the latest prize was not yet settled. This was new behavior, and she dared to wonder for a moment what was going on, poised on the threshold of the library as her mind spun a web of speculation.

  Then, with a frown, she shattered the web and whirled about, winding her way back through the tangle of empty, ill-lit rooms to her own little workplace. Curiosity annoys Father, she reminded herself, with a touch of apprehension, Questions annoy him even more. She had not been von Rothbart's daughter for this long without learning to keep curiosity within bounds and questions to a bare minimum.

  Curiosity was best confined within her magical studies, and when she reached her workroom, she lit all the lanterns in it with an impatient gesture, bringing a flood of light to the space.

  Her workshop was a smaller, simpler version of her father's, less cluttered because she did not keep failed experiments littering the benches, nor did she start half a dozen projects at once. She spared a glance and a brief flush of pride for her last successful task, the scrying mirror beneath an insulating black silk shroud.

  But she had a more ambitious task ahead of her, and one that her father did not know she was attempting. She didn't want to face his ridicule for her audacity, or his amusement at her failures, for she'd had several already.

  But tonight, knowing that she was alone in the manor, without any interfering energies from her father's more powerful magics about, she felt more confident of her success than she had since she'd begun this task.

  She rang a tiny silver bell, and immediately felt the whisper of air that meant one of the servants was at her elbow.

  "Bring me a live mouse, then watch to see if the new one is about to awaken, and summon me if she is," she ordered, tossing a tiny silver cage over her shoulder without looking. It vanished in midair, and she gave no more thought to it as she busied herself with the rest of her preparations.

  The cage with its quivering, frightened occupant was on the workbench precisely when she needed it, and she picked it up in her left hand. She closed her eyes, whispered the guttural syllables of her memorized incantation, calling up a stream of power motes with the circling fingers of her right; living bits of light that danced and sparkled with colors far brighter than those of the true gems of the tapestries in the Great Hall.

  The mouse shivered, its whiskers quivering with terror, as she directed the motes to swirl around it in an ever-decreasing spiral. The brilliant colors reflected in its terror-widened black eyes as the motes entered the cage and paused for a moment, surrounding it with a ring of enchantment.

  Then, like a swarm of bees attacking an enemy, they swiftly engulfed the tiny creature, covering it from nose to tail. Every hair shone with light, delineated for a brief moment in a glowing opalescent shimmer. It gave a single squeak of pure panic, then stiffened and dropped to the bottom of the cage as if dead.

  Hovering over the cage like an anxious parent, Odile waited and watched, to see if this trial would bring success.

  SHE knew the precise moment von Rothbart entered the manor, for the hovering crowd of invisible servants that had collected about her, creating whispers of moving air no stronger than the breath of a moth, suddenly vanished, deserting her at the summons of their master. The attraction of her minor magic was nothing to the magnetic pull of the master of the manse. A thrill of anticipation shivered the back of her neck, and her heart beat a trifle faster—but of all her feelings, hope was the strongest at this moment of success. This time—maybe I can impress him this time—he'll smile, he'll tell me I'm a worthy pupil, worthy of the name von Rothbart and the mantle of a sorceress.

  The soft footfall in the door behind her warned of her father's presence—the invisibles would have told their master where she was as a matter of course. They wouldn't converse with her or any of the flock, but they told her father everything that passed in his absence. He would want to know why she was here instead of watching the new one, and if she had obeyed his instructions not to leave her unwatched while she was awake and in her proper form.

  She whirled gracefully—von Rothbart insisted on grace; clumsiness was an offense to his senses—but did not even raise her eyes before sinking into a deep curtsy, her black silken skirts pooling beautifully around her. His boots, of the finest, softest sable leather, were all she saw of him for the moment.

  "You may rise," the deep voice said from a point above her head, speaking without inflection of any kind. He did not yet know whether she deserved punishment for leaving her duty; he reserved judgment in the absence of information. Above all things, von Rothbart was suspicious, he had seen so much betrayal. But he was also just, and would not condemn without cause.

  She moved out of her curtsy as gracefully as she had fallen into it, only raising her eyes to her father's red-bearded face when she was once again fully upright. She studied his expression carefully, but as usual, there was nothing to read there. The faint smile could just as well have been painted on. It was a carefully cultivated mask of pleasantness, and meant nothing.

  Von Rothbart was a powerful man, descendant of warriors, and the warrior blood that flowed in his veins showed in the rippling muscles of shoulder and arm, leg and chest. Many sorcerers, he has told her, let their bodies become weak as they concentrated on magic to the exclusion of all else—and subsequently, when confronted with a warrior protected against their magic, were easy to slay,

  "You, of course, will have other weapons than strength to bring to bear against such a lusty young man, and will have no need of force," he had said, his mouth twisting in a cynical smile. "You will only need to lure him into complacency, and you can remove him with a cup or a hidden dagger. You are female; such actions are second nature to your kind."

  She had hidden her hurt, as she always did when he said such things. He had taught her to conceal her emotions at all times, for emotions were weapons, and it was not good to put a weapon in the hands of anyone else, even one's father. And even though the words hurt, she knew he was right. In such a situation, she would take the easier route to disarming an open enemy. But why must he always drive home his contention that women came to treachery as easily as breathing? Could he not at least see that even if most women were treacherous by nature, she was the exception to that rule? After all, she was his daughter, body, mind and soul; he had the training and the raising of her, in the image he wished. His thoughts were hers; why could he never acknowledge that?

  She brought her thoughts to heel with a wrench, and pummeled her rebellious emotions as a housewife would pummel unruly dough. She could not read his mental state from his face, nor from his clothing; it was the same black-and-brown doublet, shirt, and hose he had worn earlier this evening. He did wear his owl-feather cape now, though, which meant he had been flying, and that was another clue to where he had been, for he seldom flew unless he was hunting another traitor to bring to just punishment. But why was he hunting again, so soon? How could he be bored with a new captive when as yet he'd pa
id scarcely any attention to her?

  She gave voice to none of her questions; women should remain silent until spoken to, even the daughter of a sorcerer who was a magician in her own right. She was as impeccably trained in proper manners as in all else.

  "You have been practicing." It was a statement, not a question. His eyes narrowed, although there was not as yet any accusation in his tone. "And what of the new one?"

  Not quite a rebuke, but a reminder that one waited in the wings, if she had neglected her duty out of boredom. "She sleeps, sir," she reported confidently. "And I gave the Silent Ones orders to warn me if she showed any signs of waking. Had they done so, I would have abandoned whatever I was doing to follow your orders that she not be left alone while aware."

  "Good." No more than that, but the threat of rebuke passed, and she felt it. "Her progress?"

  "She has accepted her fate, if not her fault," Odile told him, "She shows resignation, but no sign of repentance. I believe that she will join the flock in the morning, and acknowledge the fact that there will be no rescue from the punishment her own folly has brought to her."

  "As I would expect from a woman." The scorn in his voice was as habitual as the pleasant expression of his face. "And what is your progress, since I find you at your proper studies?"

  Rather than answering him directly, she turned, and carefully lifted the little silver cage from her workbench, handing it to him. He held it up, peering at its occupant from beneath a pair of heavy, fox-colored eyebrows.

  "A sparrow?" he said, for the moment looking puzzled, since he had no idea what she had been attempting to master. "I see nothing remarkable about it."

  "Hold it in that beam of moonlight coming through the window behind you, Father," she urged, her excitement building despite her effort to control it. She knew what the result would be, having made the trial herself already. When he saw for himself what she had mastered, surely a word of praise would come from his lips, surely for once his eyes would warm with approval!