The Swan Maiden

by Heather Tomlinson

  The Transformation spell fell over Doucette like a shower of icy needles. Magic stung her skin. Her woolen gown dissolved into a tattered patchwork. On her feet, the leather walking shoes hardened into wooden clogs, which found no purchase on the slippery rock. Holding desperately to the honey jar, Doucette lurched to her knees. An overstressed seam gave way and ripped loudly, exposing her white shift. Doucette's jaws clenched in humiliation.

  "Cruel, Azelais." Cecilia giggled. 'Apt, but ooh, so unkind."

  One of the armsmen coughed. Another hissed behind his hand, spreading the word though the file of riders.

  Doucette struggled to her feet. Transformed by Azelais's wand, the torn dress barely covered Doucette's shins. The material was threadbare where it wasn't patched and ugly with stains. The trick was calculated both to embarrass Doucette and infuriate their mother, who loathed sorcery and unseemliness in equal measure. Since Azelais would be gone when the spell was discovered, Doucette alone would suffer Lady Sarpine's rebukes.

  "Azelais, please," Doucette said miserably. "I'm sorry you were offended."

  "No, no." A smug Azelais waved away Doucette's apology. "If you're not going to act like a comte's daughter, no one should mistake you for one."

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  Cecilia shook her golden head. "I disagree. Dressed that way, she'll bring ridicule to the Aigleron name. No, I think our Doucette needs to remember exactly who she is." Blue eyes shone with sly humor as Cecilia slid her wand from her sleeve and tapped Doucette's head.

  This time, Doucette's skin warmed as the spell flowed over her. A rush of magic whisked away the ragged garment and replaced it with a gown so fine that Doucette's relief changed to alarm.

  Silvery green ribbons trimmed the lavender velvet, which fell away from her shoulders in soft, smoky folds. Then, so softly that she almost missed the translation, the wooden clogs Azelais had bestowed melted into delicate silken slippers. Doucette hardly dared move. The fabric felt so cobweb-fine that a deep breath might tear it.

  Ceilica laughed at Doucette's expression. "Isn't that better?" she teased. "You'll think twice before mucking about in this gown.

  "It's beautiful, Cecilia, but--"

  "Why bother, when she'll drag it through the sheep pens?" Azelais sniffed. "You might have saved yourself the trouble."

  "No trouble," Cecilia said. She rolled her shoulders, shaking out the coat of white feathers so that it gleamed in the morning light. "Some of us have magic to spare."

  Azelais's black swan-skin fluffed with outrage. "What are you insinuating?"

  "Why, nothing." Cecilia was all blond innocence. "Of course, you must arrive in suitable style, Doucette, though I'd rather not delay our journey to deliver you." She produced a white square of linen and stroked it with her wand. "Take a corner."

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  Trapped inside her glorious dress, Doucette stared at the handkerchief Cecilia had tucked into her free hand. "How much will this hurt?"

  "Tcha. One would think you didn't trust me." Cecilia winked at Anfos, who had been following the spell-casting with wide eyes and a wider mouth. "Boy, this side is for you. Hold tight!"

  "Yes, Lady Cecilia!" Agile as a cricket despite the cheese on his back and the sack of bread tucked under his arm, Anfos reached for the cloth's far corner. Once he took hold, the white square stretched between him and Doucette until it was large as a bed sheet.

  Cecilia gestured with her wand. Wind filled the white cloth, making it billow like a sail. Her mare snorted at the flapping cloth, and Cecilia patted the bay's neck in reassurance. "Don't fret, chère. We'll be off in a moment."

  "Yet another waste of magic," Azelais said sourly.

  "Close as the poor thing will get to wings," Cecilia said, and urged her mount down the hill. "Good-bye!"

  "Help!" Doucette cried out in alarm.

  The giant-sized handkerchief stuck to her fingers, carrying her along as the sail belled out and lifted into the air. The ground dropped away.

  "We're flying!" Anfos shouted. "Lady Cecilia Animated us!"

  Doucette's stomach lurched in protest. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, hoping it would settle. This violent swooping was nothing like she had imagined the many times she had seen Azelais and Cecilia strip off their gowns and put on their magical swan skins. She had always held her breath as the Transformation swept over them, wondering how it felt when feathers

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  merged with your skin, when your body shifted into another shape.

  And then, to fly...

  Once, it had been pure pleasure to watch them. When Doucette was small, she had thought she, too, would learn flying and sorcery one day. After all, she had inherited her sisters' outgrown gowns, their fat old ponies, their browbeaten tutors and exhausted dancing masters.

  But on her tenth birthday, Doucette had knelt before her smiling parents to open a carved wooden chest just like the ones belonging to Azelais and Cecilia. Like theirs, Doucette's box held beautifully embroidered linens, a warm fur robe, and a ring of keys.

  Unlike her sisters' boxes, it contained nothing else.

  "But, Mother, where's my swan skin?" Doucette had asked, disappointment robbing her of caution.

  "Your what?" The comtesse had flushed, then paled. She shot a vicious look at her husband. "Is this your doing, Pascau?"

  "Nay, I promised her no such thing," the comte said. Stroking his dark beard, Doucette's father studied his youngest daughter with unusual interest. "What put that idea into your pretty head, Doucette?"

  A horrible feeling pinched Doucette's insides as she turned from her angry mother to her intent father. "Azelais and Cecilia have them."

  "Yes," Lord Pascau said. "Your sisters were born swan maidens."

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  "Sorceresses," Lady Sarpine hissed, twisting her elegant fingers together. "I was promised one child to raise properly, with none of that Aigleron magical nonsense."

  "Softly, Wife."

  The smooth menace in her father's voice had made Doucette want to curl up and hide inside the birthday chest. It had affected her mother, too; the comtesse's agitated hands went still.

  Lord Pascau looked down his aquiline nose. "Aigleron 'magical nonsense' maintains your entire family in its present comfort. Surely you would not care to disturb that arrangement?"

  The skin tightened along Lady Sarpine's jaw. "No, by your grace."

  "I thought not," the comte said pleasantly. He cupped Doucette's chin in his hand and tilted her face to meet his gaze.

  The awkward position hurt her neck, but Doucette didn't complain. She was trying to breathe. It felt as though something important within her was being ripped away.

  "You will never wear a swan skin, never study the High Arts," her father said. A note of regret softened the terrible words. "I'm sorry, child. But with your mother's training, you'll make a pious and capable chastelaine whom all may admire." He let go of her chin and patted her head.

  Doucette's shoulders bowed.

  "Exactly so." The color had returned to Lady Sarpine's face. She eased gracefully to the floor and folded her daughter in her arms, surrounding Doucette with the scent of jasmine.

  "It's not fair! They can fly!" Doucette could not contain the passionate sobs that shook her body.

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  "Don't cry, my treasure," her mother soothed. "Sorcery's a dangerous business. Given your advantages, you'll be a power in the realm and mistress of a splendid castle one day. Oh, sweet-ling, you've so much to look forward to."

  Doucette disagreed, but no one asked her opinion.

  Over the years, she had tried to give up her dreams and accept the path mapped out for her. Each time she heard the wild note in Cecilia's laughter or spied the glint in Azelais's dark eyes that meant imminent flight, Doucette would occupy herself with a chastelaine's duties. But always she found herself stealing up the stairs to the tower chamber. Sick with longing, she'd watch her sisters turn into swans and soar over the countryside with a freedom she would never know.
>
  She might have envied them less if she had realized how the wind would toss her about, helpless as a leaf. At times, Cecilia's Animated sail plunged toward earth, so Anfos's kicking legs and Doucette's fragile slippers trailed above the thorn bushes. Then the capricious wind lifted them until the air felt thin and strange in Doucette's lungs. Just when her nervous stomach calmed, the sail would swing them around like two puppets, and Doucette's heart would get stuck in her throat again.

  One arm ached from holding the fabric, the other from clutching the honey jar to her chest. Strands of hair came loose from her braids and whipped around her face. Doucette held her breath when she and Anfos tumbled; she gasped for air when, more slowly, they climbed.

  With the small part of her mind that wasn't completely terrified, Doucette noticed that the sky smelled like spring. First,

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  wet rock and herbs, then turned earth, new grass, and sheep. The force of the wind made her eyes water, and she closed them. The sail leveled briefly, then swooped.

  Down, Doucette's stomach told her. The sheep smell got very strong.

  She opened her eyes and saw the sail crumple.

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  Chapter Three

  ***

  D oucette and Anfos tumbled over the white backs of wildly bleating ewes. Behind the frightened sheep, the flock's guardian saw them, too. A tan-colored dog the size of a bear charged at the airborne menace.

  Doucette choked on a scream as the dog's warning growl sounded in her ear. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of teeth, and thought she tasted the creature's evil breath before the invisible wind, freshened and the sail pulled taut, snatching Doucette out of reach.

  "Peace, Osco," a friendly voice called. "What news, travelers?"

  "Ho, shepherd.'" Anfos shouted back.

  Doucette kept her mouth closed, afraid of what would come out if she opened it. They had almost reached the shearing pens. She could see the willow fencing marking off the enclosures, the tents and wagons, the line of trees along the river's edge.

  With a final flourish, the wind deposited Anfos and Doucette on the muddy ground outside the first empty pen. When they touched the earth, Cecilia's spell unraveled. The sail shrank to its original size and fluttered to earth.

  Against all expectation, Anfos still held the bread sack, and Doucette had kept the honey. As she landed, the heavy jar thudded

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  into her middle, robbing her of breath. Feeling as though she had run for miles and wrestled the big dog after that, Doucette lay still. Despite the relief that overwhelmed her, she missed the sensation of the wind tugging at her hair.

  "Lady Doucette, are you well?" Anfos scrambled to sit beside her. "Because your face looks green. Did you know magic makes your skin turn colors and your insides twist up in knots? I don't mind, though, because we flew high as falcons! Didn't we?"

  Doucette sighed. "Yes, Anfos."

  "Can we go again?"

  Before she could answer, an eager yip, yip, yip exploded near Doucette's head. A wet tongue lapped her face.

  "Ugh! Stop!" Rolling the honey jar away from her body, Doucette thrust out an arm to fend off her attacker.

  "Come here, Fidele," Anfos ordered.

  "Lady Doucette?" a cheerful voice asked.

  Doucette pushed her straggling hair out of her face and tried to compose herself, a task made more difficult by the realization that a cold, wet patch was spreading over her back and legs. When she sat upright, the velvet gown pulled from the ground with an ominous sucking sound. Doucette looked up and swallowed.

  It was unfair, but inevitable, that the oldest and most handsome of the Vent'roux brothers had witnessed her undignified arrival.

  Like other shepherds, Jaume wore a short brown tunic and leather leggings, a wool cape and broad-brimmed hat. Also like many, he was tall and strong, and he leaned on his shepherd's crook with a deceptively sleepy air. Unlike most, he had thick

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  dark hair that curled around his strong features and a smile whose sweetness always made Doucette forget that she was the comte's plain daughter, the boring, practical, nonmagical one.

  "Good morning, Jaume. I hope you had a pleasant journey to Beloc?" Embarrassment strangled Doucette's voice.

  "Less eventful than yours, Lady." He took off his hat and bowed, then extended a lean brown hand and helped Doucette to her feet as though she weighed no more than Fidele.

  The small brown-and-white herding dog snuffled at the sack of welcome loaves. Jaume hoisted both sack and honey jar out of his dog's reach, then handed Doucette the white cloth. "Never seen a person flying a handkerchief before," he observed. "You've taken up magic?"

  "That was Lady Cecilia's spell." Anfos rubbed Fidele's ears. "Isn't she a beauty?"

  "Oh, aye," Jaume said.

  Unreasonably, Doucette felt betrayed. Cecilia didn't need more admirers. She had scores.

  "Has she got any new tricks?" Anfos asked.

  "She will, by summer's end," Doucette said, unable to suppress her bitterness. "Cecilia told me Tante Mahalt promised to teach them the greater Transformation spells this year."

  Anfos and Jaume wore identically puzzled expressions.

  "I meant Fidele," Anfos said,

  "Oh, aye. Watch, now," Jaume said.

  Silently, Doucette folded the handkerchief and tucked it into her velvet sleeve. How ridiculous she must seem! Dressed for a ball and landing in the muck. She had better finish Na Patris's

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  errand and run home before she could do anything else to damage Jaume's good opinion of her.

  Her companions kindly ignored Doucette's preoccupation. Jaume made a pushing motion with one hand. "Fidele, down."

  The little dog flattened her belly to the grass, extended her front legs, and tucked her nose between her paws.

  "Oh, clever.'" Anfos clapped his hands.

  Fidele looked so appealing that Doucette felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. "Well done," she said.

  "That's my girl." Jaume bent at the waist and pointed to his own face. "Fidele, kiss!"

  The dog leaped twice her own height and licked the shepherd's cheek.

  Anfos and Doucette both laughed. Fidele barked, pranced, and then, on command, repeated her kissing trick. This time, a chorus of jeering voices responded.

  "Poor Jaume, twenty years old and can't get a sweetheart."

  "Give him a good nip, Fidele."

  "That's our big brother. Kiss the girls and make them bark."

  Baaa. Baaaaa.

  Doucette almost slipped back into the mud when the wave of sheep broke over her. Anxious-eyed ewes butted her hip, trapping her against the side of the pen and adding green and brown smears to the muddy purple velvet.

  Magically, Jaume seemed to be in several places at once. "Open the gate, Vitor," he said, cuffing one brother on the ear while he caught Doucette's elbow to steady her. "You brought them in far too fast, Tinou. Do you have wool between your ears? No, don't

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  tell me. Make yourself useful, man." As Doucette recovered her balance, Jaume passed the honey jar to his brother, unhooked a lamb caught in the willow hurdles, and shouted at his youngest brother. "Eri, hold the rear with the other dogs. Fidele, pen!"

  Brown-and-white herders nipped at their charges' heels. Fidele led the flock between the gates and stood guard, not allowing a single lamb to escape.

  Doucette's feet were wet. She shifted to pull them free of the mud, and the slippers' fine silk uppers parted from the soles, like roasted chestnut skins peeling from the nutmeat. To her dismay, the shoes separated into limp pieces. Cold mud oozed between her toes.

  She'd be walking home barefoot, thanks to her clever sisters and their clever spells. Perhaps she'd have done better to take her chances with Lavena in the caves. At least the spirit was said to give you something in exchange for what she took.

  Woof.

  A paw the size of a pony's hoof crushed the remains of Doucet
te's left shoe.

  A little timidly, she held out her hand for the enormous dog to sniff. "Remember me, Osco? You know I'd never hurt one of your lambs."

  The flock's guardian yawned, showing fearsome teeth, then butted his massive jaw under Doucette's hand.

  "Faugh." Her nose wrinkled as she scratched the thick tan fur. "What have you been eating, you great brute?"

  "Trolls." Jaume's brother Vitor grinned down at Doucette. "Wolves, ogres, evil sorceresses. Thick as fleas they were, once we crossed the Turance into Beloc county.

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  The sweep of a shepherd's crook knocked Vitor's hat off his head. "Manners," Jaume said.

  Vitor grimaced and bowed. "Your pardon, little lady. I didn't mean to insult your aunt. Or your sisters. I meant, um."

  As if she weren't standing in a field, covered with mud, thanks to one of those very same evil sorceresses, Doucette inclined her head. "Good morning, Vitor."

  Hat in one hand and honey jar in the other, Tinou came up to eye Doucette's bedraggled finery. "What, a revel, and no one told me? I would have worn my dancing shoes, Lady Doucette." Despite his burden, he managed a courtier's bow.

  "Tinou." Blushing fiercely, Doucette curtsied in return. As she rose, she shook out the velvet skirts and stepped behind the big dog to hide her now-bare feet. Not that the merry shepherds would believe her attempts at decorum. They'd seen her flopping around in the air like washing on a line.

  With Fidele and the other herding dogs at his heels, Eri closed the gate on the last of the ewes. "Lady." As he straightened from his bow, the young man's dreamy brown eyes narrowed in concentration. Head lifted, Eri turned to Jaume. "Is that Na Patris's bread I smell?"