He was afraid to close his eyes again, lest the witch return to haunt him. He lay back into the embrace of his feather bed, fully intending to fight off sleep until morning.
But the next thing he knew, sunlight was pouring in through the gaps in his bedcurtains, and cheerful birdsong from the window made his night terrors seem foolish in a way all his logic had been unable to do.
He reached out and pulled back one of the bedcurtains, as thirsty for sunlight as he had been for water last night. Arno was right at his bedside, pulling the other curtains aside as soon as he moved, as usual, completely oblivious to the fright his master had fought off. Siegfried stared at the sunlight, and felt his fright melt away as if it had never existed at all.
Relief at having survived the night made him unusually easy to please this morning; he accepted the first set of clothing his servants proposed, and made no objections even when they fumbled a little in lacing up the points of his hose.
"Bit of excitement this morning, Prince Siegfried," Arno remarked as he helped Siegfried into his boots. "Found a dead woman in the village millrace. Drowned, so they say."
He furrowed his brow, slightly confused for a moment by the non sequitur, before his mind snapped into alert comprehension. Ah, of course—this is something I need to know, I may have to give orders about it if Mother hasn't. "Murder?" he asked cautiously. "Robbery?" If there had been a murder, it was his duty to investigate it.
But Arno was shaking his head. "Captain of the guard says not. Looks like a suicide, he says, and a pity, too. Handsome girl, it was, young—"
"Young?" A superstitious shiver shook him, and an echo of the horror and chill of last night crept over him. A dead young woman—like the gypsy girl? Surely not . . . surely it could not be. . . .
'Aye. A young gypsy girl, looks like." Arno went on blithely, head bent over his work. "No one hereabouts is missing, and she had the looks of a gypsy and the rags." He made a tsking sound. "A real pity. She wasn't in the water long, at any rate."
"No?" His throat was tight; all the fear of last night came flooding back, and he could all but see the staring eyes in the blue-gray, dead face, yet he dared not let Arno and the rest see it, know he was terrified, know his weakness. . . .
"No. No more than half a day," Arno continued, oblivious to the pounding of Siegfried's heart. "In fact, they say she must have drowned last night, just about midnight. Curious."
"Yes," Siegfried managed, his jaw clenched. "Curious. A suicide, you said?"
"The priest ordered her buried at the crossroads, to keep her from walking," Arno reported. Now he looked quizzically up at Siegfried. "Unless you order otherwise. I'm to ask—"
Now he was almost faint with relief for a second time. Buried at the crossroads, she could not haunt him again, "No!" he almost shouted, then quickly regained control. "No," he repeated, forcing an illusion of calm over himself. "Jesu forbid she's free to haunt m— the village! Bury her at the crossroads with bell, book, and candle to drive out her evil!" His tone grew harsh, and Arno's eyes widened with surprise, though he kept his thoughts to himself. "And yes, by Christ! Stake her there as well! Drive a spike through her heart! I'll have the witch nailed in her grave!"
"The priest may object," Arno pointed out mildly.
"Hang the priest. Let him tend to the souls of those who deserve tending." Anger burned away fear, and Siegfried let his anger have its way with him, grateful only that it banished the terror. "He cannot save the soul of a witch; let her writhe in her grave until Judgment Day and burn in hell thereafter!"
A mask of bland obedience dropped over the surprise and curiosity in Arno's features, and he simply bowed as if Siegfried had ordered a new saddle for his palfrey—though the other two servants backed away, their eyes on Siegfried's face as though something they saw there terrified them. "I will order it done, sire," Arno said—and nothing more.
Chapter Six
VON Rothbart led the flock in his guise as a great eagle-owl, followed by Odette, the rest of the swans trailing out in a graceful vee, with Odile bringing up the rear to make sure no stragglers dropped behind. She loved flying; she didn't get to wear her swan form nearly as often as she would have liked, for her studies and duties left her little free time to spend in the air above the baron's estate.
They flew by day, for the eyes of an eagle-owl were perfectly suited to daylight and the "natural" owls hunted equally well by day or night. They flew high enough that it wasn't likely anyone would notice anything but the white skein of swans against the sky, overlooking the darker owl leading them.
Odile had no idea where her father was taking them, for they did not head in the same direction two days in a row. They seemed to be meandering across the countryside, their course determined by chance. She knew very well that her father did nothing by chance, though, so this course may have been determined by the presence of secure places to spend the night.
They made no great speed, either, despite the fact that they were flying. For one thing, being confined to the single lake as they were most of the time, the girls in their swan forms were not accustomed to the kind of exercise that a wild swan got. They flew but rarely, and then for no great distance. For another thing, they needed to feed as swans rather than humans, since von Rothbart was not inclined to waste his powers in conjuring food for more than a score of girls. All of these considerations meant that they didn't make a start each day until noon at best. Unless the moon was due to rise late, they had to stop well before sunset—Odile guessed that von Rothbart wasn't going to expend magic in keeping them as swans past the ordinary time of the spell, and having his captives plummet out of the sky to their deaths would not have furthered his plans for them.
The baron had obviously calculated this journey with all those considerations in mind, however, for each day, just as the girls started to tire, or just as the sun sank below the horizon— whichever came first—he would lead them down to a secluded patch of water in the midst of some untenanted wilderness where they would land. There was no one to see the swans glide in to shore, no one to see them suddenly transform to girls as the moon rose, no one to wonder or interfere.
Because of her own nocturnal roamings, much more energetic than the bit of dancing the others practiced, Odile was not nearly so exhausted as the others when they all stopped for the day. This was just as well, since the baron left her in complete charge of the flock at night, flying off she knew not where, and only appearing by sunrise the next day. She was in charge of finding them a resting place in their human forms, and sitting guard over them until her father returned.
Perhaps that was why he continued to treat them as he always had, for he was not there to observe the transformations in Odette—or, for that matter, in Odile.
For the first few days, Odile had kept strictly to orders: flying strongly in the rear of the flock and rounding up the stragglers, then watching over the girls at night as they slept, exhausted, wherever they could find a soft spot of ground beside the ponds and lakes where they came to land. But on the fourth day, there came a change in her actions.
It first happened when Lisbet, one of the little swans, started to drop back, with laboring wingstrokes that showed she was quickly running out of strength. Until then, Odile had simply flown to the straggler and nipped at her until she caught up with the others, but this time it was clear to her, if not to her father, that the little one simply didn't have the energy to keep up today. She hadn't slept well the night before, nor eaten well that morning because of her sleepless night; Odile had expected her to have some trouble, but she had hoped that Lisbet would have the strength to keep up. Obviously, though, she didn't, and it was up to Odile to do something.
She side-slipped in the air and approached the young one, who turned her head on her long neck and looked at her with fearful and pleading eyes, expecting cruelty—a buffeting wing, a painful nip from Odile's beak. It was more difficult to practice magic in her form of a swan than in her human shape, but Odile
could work some minor changings—and she did, conjuring aid for Lisbet in the form of a partial levitation, to take some of her weight away.
With the load on her weary wings suddenly lightened, the swan shot forward, astonishment in her eyes, and caught up with the rest of the flock. Von Rothbart never noticed.
When they landed on a kidney-shaped pond in the midst of a marsh, Odile took the weight-reducing spell off the youngster just as her webbed feet touched the water, which made for an interesting landing; as usual, her father flew away without even a word.
There was plenty of food here, and tasty by swan standards, so they could all replenish their strength. But a marsh would hardly supply restful sleeping places for humans, a fact that apparently escaped von Rothbart,
While the others gathered together, foraged as much as their exhaustion would permit, and waited for sunset, Odile found a hummock that would bear her weight and made her own transformation to human. With a height advantage, she hoped to find some better refuge for herself and the flock.
Immediately, the dank heat struck her a blow, and the thick, unmistakable odor of the swamp itself, a wet miasma of rotting vegetation, stagnant water, and gases oozing up from the muck, assaulted her nose. A swarm of midges headed straight for her, which didn't improve the situation any. She frowned, a flicker of anger making her clench her jaw. What was he thinking, leaving us here? Was he even thinking at all?
Then she shook her head at her own stupidity. Hadn't she wanted her father to treat her as a capable magician in her own right? Hadn't she wanted to become his helper and partner? And wasn't he acting precisely as if that was what she was? So why should she be angry? He had left her a problem, he expected her to solve it without fuss, and that was what she would do.
Fine, we need a secure place to sleep— She swatted at more biting insects in annoyance, then took a deep breath, and circled a bit of magic about herself, creating a barrier the insects couldn't cross. —no, we need a secure and comfortable place to sleep without being eaten alive by bugs. If the girls don't get some shelter from nighttime chill and insects, they won't be able to sleep, and they'll be too tired to fly tomorrow. Von Rothbart would probably force them to fly—or if he allowed good sense to dictate his actions, he would be angry that they couldn't.
There are times when Father has not allowed common sense to dictate his actions, she thought with disfavor. He is more likely to contrive some way to get them farther along.
If that happened, it would be inevitable that they would be forced to stop sooner than he had planned, and that would throw his entire schedule off. One thing was paramount; the swans must never stop overnight in a place where their transformation could be observed by strangers; having the schedule changed would put that in jeopardy.
It's up to me to make certain there are no problems tomorrow by fixing things tonight. That is my job; that is why he brought me along. If I can't handle a situation like this, I don't deserve to be considered as a partner.
The trick would be to create something using the minimum possible of power, and do so before the moon rose, I don't have Father's resources; whatever I do, it will have to be clever. She could, of course, create a shelter out of the thin air, but why? They didn't need something that might vanish early when she ran out of power, leaving them all sputtering in the water. What they needed was firm ground to sleep on, warmth, shelter from insects and from damp. All these things could be created without creating them directly with magic.
Dry land, first. I wish I had some of Father's invisible helpers— Then it came to her; she needed helpers, not necessarily invisible nor magical. These waters should be teeming with swamp creatures and more arcane creations; the simplest and least-draining of magic spells to control them would make use of this unique workforce. She took a handful of mud and reeds from under her feet, then carefully spun her spell around it, feeling power actually drain from her as she worked. She invested her power in it, using the water dripping from her hand as the carrier. She wove in the controls, ordering every creature that lived in this water to come to her aid—wove in the purpose, that they should build her an island from the mud and reeds of the swamp bottom—and spun it three times around her like a circling breeze to gather in her power and knit itself tight. She held it like a restive horse, making sure she had complete control over it, and let it loose.
Within moments, the first signs that her spell was working appeared in the form of hundreds of turtles, three otters, and some other assorted animals, each bearing a mouthful of mud and reeds, which they deposited on her hummock. They didn't even look up at her; controlled as they were, she might not even have been there so far as they were concerned. Each animal deposited its burden and returned to the water to bring another load.
That works. But I want dry land, not an enormous mud pie. Odile set her second spell, once again using her handful of mud and reeds as the catalyst, a spell to squeeze the water out of what they brought. She felt more power drain from her, and took a moment to assess what she had left.
As the water beaded up on the magically firming mud and ran back into the lake, stranger beasts appeared, also carrying mud and reeds up from the bottom. Undines with weed-braided hair and pale green skin brought mud up in basketfuls; muskrats patted it into place. Shortly the hummock swarmed with activity and grew in size by leaps and bounds. Beneath the waters, those with gills built the foundation; above it, the air breathers patted and heaped more material from the bottom of the pond onto the mound. Turtles and otters worked steadily beside will'o'wisps, undines, and weird creatures Odile didn't even recognize. Odile's spell made the finished mound as dry and firm as any sure river- bank. When she had sufficient land to work with, she spun a third spell of accelerated growth (one requiring significantly less power than the previous spells), and covered the new land with a thick cover of soft grasses and moss as her crew continued to enlarge it.
So much for a dry place to sleep. She waited for a moment, gathering her strength, while she pondered the answer to the questions of shelter and warmth.
As she looked about, the spell of accelerated growth gave her the answer for shelter. She selected one of the animals, a musk- rat, and altered the spell on it alone. Instead of mud, she had it bring her a handful of willow shoots. Then she waited; when the island was large enough for all the girls to sleep on it in comfort and without undue crowding, she dismissed her helpers and banished the first spell. As the other spells continued to work, keeping the island dry, and making the grasses and moss thicker by the moment, she planted the willows around the edge of the new land and set them to grow.
By this time, even the weary swans had gathered around the island, eying the new ground with curiosity. Odile kept from smiling with difficulty; it was altogether gratifying to have an audience for her magic, especially one as attentive as this one.
As the trees grew, she paid careful attention to how they grew, their drooping branches intertwining at her order to the outside of the island and above it, until they shaped a thick canopy covering the entire island, with plenty of room to stand beneath it. Now she stopped their growth, and altered the spell to make the leaves grow larger rather than increasing the height of the trees—
Larger? She made them huge. One leaf could easily serve as a rain shelter for a cat before she was done! The leaves overlapped so well that they formed an actual roof and round walls, many layers thick, proof enough against dew, chill, damp, breezes, and even light rain.
As for warmth—now that she had the shelter, that was the next order of business. She considered spinning blankets of grasses and spider silk, but dismissed the idea as too time consuming. Instead, she bent and pulled up grass by hand in the center of the island until she had a circle of bare hearth. There she kindled a perfectly ordinary fire.
Well, I suppose it's not ordinary. This was magical fire, like the one that burned on the hearth in her room in the manor. It consumed nothing on its little scooped-out hearth, and gave off an insec
t-repelling perfume rather than smoke.
It was dark outside, and the moon would soon be up, but inside the shelter it was warm, fragrant, and welcoming. Now that her work was done, Odile was suddenly very tired. She dismissed the last of her growing-spells and tucked herself into an odd- shaped little nook away from the central hearth, but still within the effective range of the perfume. She couldn't lean against the willow walls, for they weren't strong enough to support weight, but they made a comforting barrier between her and the swamp, and were rather like a tent with foliage painted on its walls. With her legs folded under her, her face in shadow, she hoped that she blended into the darkness.
The last light faded outside the door, and a chorus of frogs and night insects rose outside, surrounding the shelter with song. Shortly after that, Odette, still in swan form, poked her head into the shelter.
She was followed by the rest, who crowded in after her. As Odette walked slowly to the fire, neck stretched out suspiciously, the moon climbed above the horizon. The swans dropped to the grass as if stunned, and the shimmering mist of magic hovered over them all, obscuring them.
The mist lifted; Odette rose, the folds of her white silk dress settling around her feet. She turned away from the fire, and her gaze alighted on Odile.
She said nothing, but her expression was speculative. Odile met her gaze, wondering what was going on in her mind.
Then Odette turned back to the group of girls—weary, but very relieved girls, who hadn't the energy to do much more than find places under the boughs, but had regained enough strength to marvel aloud at Odile's creation.
Odile remained silent, pulling up grass and moss to make a pillow, trying to stay inconspicuous. As the interior of the shelter warmed further, the girls selected sleeping places to their liking and dropped down onto the grass, grateful for the softness and the dry ground beneath it.
One of them commented on the thick carpet of greenery, and Odette smiled crookedly. "And when we are done sleeping on it, we can eat it," she pointed out with undisguised irony. "So our keeper serves us twice with a single gesture. Very efficient."
The Black Swan Page 10
