The Swan Maiden

by Heather Tomlinson

Cecilia's Transformation, a golden harp, was judged more successful.

  Mahalt skimmed her fingers over the strings. Sound rippled

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  into the room, and nightingales trilled in response. "Lovely," Mahalt said.

  Cecilia curtsied gracefully. "Thank you."

  Doucette's stomach clenched. Her turn. She tapped the remaining rock with her wand and tried to fix her idea in her mind before she spoke.

  Be thou painted image, show Azelais,

  Cecilia,

  Doucette.

  A memory for our aunt to hold

  when we have gone.

  The rock flattened into a wooden oblong the size of Doucette's clasped hands. The other women leaned closer as the board's surface streaked with patches of color, then sharpened into three faces--a portrait.

  Perfectly detailed in every respect, Azelais's dark beauty, Cecilia's mirthful face, and Doucette's worried gray eyes regarded them.

  "Oooh," Cecilia said.

  Doucette frowned. Her eyes looked too big, and her hair--

  The image wavered; the bright colors smeared. "No!" Doucette cried out in disappointment as the board lost its shape and reformed as a rock.

  Her hand trembled on the wand. She was sure she had the

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  will to make a spell endure. She had to win this contest, to prove herself.

  "It was a pretty idea," Cecilia said generously.

  "While it lasted." Relief flashed under Azelais's calm.

  Mahalt didn't waste breath on Doucette's failure. She held up her arm, and three doves fluttered down to perch on her sleeve. "Next, you are to Transform a living creature," she said, giving a bird to each niece. "Cecilia, will you begin?"

  "Yes, Tante." With her usual exuberance, Cecilia turned her dove into an enormous brown bear.

  It shook its head, as if getting its bearings. Then the bear lumbered to Mahalt and stood, putting its mighty paws to the sorceress's shoulders. Toothed jaws opened in an earsplitting growl.

  Cecilia shrieked in horror. Frantically, she waved her wand, but the bear remained a bear.

  Squawks and whistles and a desperate honking filled the air as the queen's subjects flew to her defense.

  At the still center of a blizzard of darting, clawing, pecking birds, Mahalt smacked the bear across the chin and spoke a sharp command.

  Sparks spangled the brown fur. The roar dwindled to a coo as the huge beast turned back into a dove. With a whir of wings, the little bird joined the flock circling the hall.

  In the uproar, Doucette had let go of her dove. It flew to the top of a pillar. "Please," she said, "come back. Come back.'" But although she coaxed and whistled, she couldn't persuade the dove to return to her hand.

  Her aunt directed the birds to settle themselves. "A sorceress keeps her mind fixed on her goal, Doucette," she said, watching

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  her niece's vain attempts to retrieve her dove. "Like Cecilia, you failed to think ahead. She made no provision to curb her beast. You lost yours to fear. You have both failed. Can you do better, Azelais?"

  Doucette stepped aside, biting back her protest. How unjust, that she hadn't even had a chance to try!

  A smug Azelais tapped her wand on the dove she had kept tightly clasped to her breast.

  Be thou catling, fluffy white, spare with thy claws, but lavish with thy affections, until Mahalt releases thee from thy unaccustomed shape.

  When Azelais opened her hands, the kitten blinked, then mewed. It stretched adorably, licked one paw, and washed its whiskered face.

  Doucette and Cecilia traded despairing looks.

  Azelais handed the ball of white fur to the Queen of the Birds. The kitten purred and bumped its head against Mahalt's fingers, paying no attention to a goose's derisive honking.

  "As you know, I am not best fond of cats," Mahalt said. "However, this one wins the second test." She brought the kitten to her lips and whispered. With an irritated fillip of wings, a dove rose from her hands.

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  Mahalt surveyed her nieces. "For the last trial, you will Transform yourselves and see who is the strongest. Take as many or as few forms as you like, but remember that your spell must include a means of returning your own shape."

  Doucette resolved to do better. If she could only win this task, neither sister would have an advantage, and the contest might be extended another round.

  The young women set down their wands.

  Cecilia crouched to touch hers and changed into a long yellow serpent. In a deliberate challenge, one sweep of her tail knocked Azelais's wand across the floor.

  Azelais responded instantly. Where she had stood, a black horse reared, laid back its ears, and screamed in defiance. Returning to the ground with a loud clatter, powerful hooves pounded the floor.

  Snake-Cecilia coiled and struck, but the horse's well-aimed kick sent the long yellow body flying into the wall. Serpent hit stone with a wet-sounding smack.

  Cecilia rolled out of the snake shape and vomited onto the floor. Panting, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve and burst into sobs.

  Horse-Azelais bugled victory.

  Doucette swallowed hard. With a crown for the taking, she could not afford to fail. And to beat Azelais, Doucette would have to surprise her sister. Nothing too ambitious, though-- Doucette had barely mastered this spell. She pressed her foot against her wand and whispered:

  I'll be wasp, my sting

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  to drive a high horse mad, until she or I

  surrender.

  Flying straight to the horse's vulnerable muzzle, wasp-Doucette arched her body.

  But Azelais was too quick for her.

  Before Doucette could sting, one hoof touched Azelais's wand. The black horse dissolved into a cyclone of spinning air that picked up the wasp and whirled it around the hall.

  As the invisible wind whipped Doucette past a thousand snapping beaks, her mind spun with terror. Fearing each moment would be her last, she blamed herself for choosing such a helpless form.

  It seemed to Doucette like an eternity before her sister tired of the cruel sport. At last, wind-Azelais dropped her dazed wasp sister to the floor and whistled around the wand. Lightning shot through the column of boiling air, then thickened into streaks of green and black.

  Azelais stepped from the whirlwind, one leather slipper poised within an easy step of crushing her rival.

  Doucette buzzed. "I surrender, Azelais!"

  The words could be clearly heard, though her voice sounded strange coming from a wasp's small body. Obediently, her spell unraveled, leaving Doucette lying in a crumpled heap across from the still-whimpering Cecilia.

  Mahalt's fathomless gaze rested on each of her nieces in turn. "Winning two of the three trials, Azelais has bested both of

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  you," she said. "The birds of the air deserve the most powerful champion. Azelais shall be my heir."

  Doucette slumped on the floor. Azelais preened, savoring her victory and the death of her sisters' hopes. Their aunt drew a thin gold fillet from behind her back (and where had that come from? Doucette wondered dully) and set it over Azelais's brow.

  The birds greeted the crowning with raucous acclaim, twittering and chirping, hooting and cawing. Their beating wings obscured the ceiling of the great hall.

  Azelais stood proudly next to Mahalt as birds wheeled over her head. Most contented themselves with dipping a wing in salute before flying out the open doors, but some alit for an instant on a shoulder or outstretched hand. Affectionate as a turtledove, a sea eagle slid its head under Azelais's ear and tugged loose a strand of black hair.

  One of the doves landed near Doucette's hand and cooed at her, as if in apology. But when she would have stroked the white feathers, it flapped away.

  Forever lost, like the chance she had squandered for a triumphant return to Beloc.

  The hall emptied.

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  Chapter Thirteen

  ***


  D oucette ladled a supper of millet porridge into a bowl and stole up to the flight court outside her chamber. In the comforting night, perched between the Immeluse's tumbling water below and the silent stars above, she needn't hide her disappointment or her dread. She didn't have to pretend, like Cecilia, that losing a crown was a minor setback, that life would continue to unroll as merrily as it had before.

  Though the coming days might be long and warm, with autumn's frost still weeks away, summer had ended for Doucette. When Captain Denis and his men reached the ford, she and her sisters would return with them to the Château de l'Aire. Without a victory to shield her, Doucette would be exposed to the full force of her mother's wrath.

  An owl flew past, ghostly in the moonlight, then backwinged to a stop on the balcony railing. The sleek head swiveled. Round eyes examined Doucette from under tufted brows.

  The bird seemed so intelligent that Doucette was moved to extend her spoon. "Millet?" she asked. "With cinnamon. A little scorched, but not terrible."

  The bird's beak clicked. A crippled talon pushed the spoon away. Then, without a sound, the mottled brown shape

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  stretched until Doucette's aunt leaned against the railing beside her.

  "I've eaten," Mahalt said. "Your pardon for burning the porridge."

  Doucette gulped in surprise at her aunt's Transformation. As she swallowed the mouthful of millet, a question occurred to her. "Why don't you use a wand?"

  Her aunt sounded amused. "You think magic would improve my cooking?"

  "No," Doucette said. "I meant--that's not what I'm asking."

  "I know." Mahalt relented. "Sorceresses may use other magical objects, rings and such, in the place of wands."

  "You don't," Doucette observed. "Well, you often wear rings, but you're not wearing one now. How did you change out of owl shape?"

  "Ah." The Queen of the Birds rubbed her bare hands together. "You do have the eye for this work, Niece."

  Doucette took another bite of porridge and chewed. She had failed, hadn't she? What was the point of empty compliments? Unless her aunt meant to deflect the question. "How do you work magic without a wand, Tante?" she persisted.

  "A true Aigleron, stubborn to the core," Mahalt said. "Well, I told your sisters. It's time you knew, too." Her weight shifted to her good foot; her skirts rustled softly. "Though I pray you never find yourself desperate enough to venture it."

  Doucette thought of her aunt, deprived of her magic and her freedom, and shivered. "The Rassemblement?"

  "Yes," Mahalt said somberly.

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  "Cecilia said the spirit Lavena helped you get your swan skin back, for a price."

  "My ankle bone." Mahalt's malformed foot flexed in its soft leather shoe. "There's no predicting her whim. She might take a finger joint, a rib, an ear, a mind--there's no knowing in advance and no bargaining after the fact. That is one of the risks."

  Doucette's appetite vanished. She dropped the spoon into the bowl and set it down. "And the others?"

  "There are a thousand ways to fail. You must surrender yourself completely, knowing Lavena will root through your mind like a sow through a midden, nosing out what to keep." Remembered pain edged Mahalt's voice. "And that is only the unmaking. What to speak of the Rassemblement itself...." She sighed. "Bone by bone, your companion remakes you. If true, he or she will lay you straight. But if, through your helper's disgust or cowardice, the job is ill-done..."

  "The magic is lost?" Doucette asked when her aunt's voice trailed away.

  "No, no. Lavena's no cheat. Those who survive a bath in her Cauldron do gain power. But more than one fresh-faced maiden has returned a twisted crone and turned her family's love to fear."

  "You didn't," Doucette said.

  "I kept my looks." Mahalt sounded almost as if she might have preferred things otherwise.

  Moonlight revealed sorrow etched into her face. Had she loved the husband who took away her freedom?

  Shyly, Doucette touched her aunt's hand. "I'm sorry."

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  Mahalt pulled away, and her face resumed its usual impassive expression. "All power has a price. If you choose sorcery, Doucette, know that you are also choosing constant vigilance. Magic will mark your soul. You must beware the motives of others. And you must beware your own."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The more you work magic, the more, let us say, delicious, it becomes," Mahalt said. "Tempering power with wisdom--it is not an easy life. Though it has its rewards." Her fingers closed like claws over the railing, then let go. One elegant hand swept over Doucette's hair in a rare gesture of affection. "If I thought you couldn't withstand the temptation, I wouldn't have taught you. Don't be discouraged by what happened this afternoon."

  Doucette scuffed her shoe against the tower wall. "Azelais was haughty enough before. I hate to think how she's going to act now, knowing she'll be a queen."

  "The birds may be her saving grace," Mahalt said unexpectedly, "as they were mine. Having something to care for counters the danger."

  "But winning would have meant more to me than ruling your birds," Doucette confessed. "I wanted to prove myself equal to Azelais and Cecilia, for once."

  "You will. I see great promise in you, Doucette. You've mastered the underlying principles of Animation and Transformation. Honing your will, your concentration, will come with practice."

  "If Mother lets me," Doucette said.

  "You're an Aigleron, Niece, behind that sweet smile. Don't forget." Mahalt stretched her arms to the sky. "It's a beautiful evening. Have you flown as an owl?"

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  "No," Doucette admitted.

  "It's not to be missed." Her aunt gave her a sidelong glance. "Shall we?"

  Doucette was glad to put aside her worries and her aunt's warnings. "Yes, please, Tante Mahalt."

  Mahalt touched Doucette's head and spoke. Two owls swooped from the ramparts and vanished into the soft summer night.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  ***

  D ays later, Doucette had cause to wish she were a bird again. She sagged in the saddle, rubbing at the road dust that crusted her lips and caught in her eyelashes. She felt dry and hard, like a piece of bread left out too long.

  It would have been more pleasant by far, she thought, to fly the remaining distance, but Azelais had insisted the three of them ride home "as befitted their status as noblewomen." Doucette and Cecilia thought that Azelais was more interested in displaying her gold circlet than maintaining propriety, but both were too dispirited to challenge her.

  So Doucette's mare plodded behind two armsmen's mounts, climbing the steep road that led to the Château de l'Aire. The late-afternoon sun beat on Doucette's head, while her sore thighs reminded her of each step taken in the long journey. Longingly, she remembered the shade of Tante Mahalt's woods, the fresh scent of pines and running water.

  Underneath the lowland's stale heat, a constant thread of worry tightened around her middle.

  Had enough time passed to blunt the worst edge of her mother's anger?

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  Feathers tickled Doucette's neck for what felt like the thousandth time. Riding in the lead of the party, Azelais and Cecilia had changed their swan skins to light scarves with a tap of their wands, then draped the scarves around their necks. Doucette had preferred to keep her cloak's reassuring weight against her back.

  Except that she was so hot! Perhaps their idea was better. Doucette reached for the wand that nestled against her forearm, inside her long sleeve.

  Before she could cast the spell, her horse lifted its head and pranced a couple of steps. Doucette had to juggle the wand and the reins to keep her seat as she rode between the town gates and into sudden shadow.

  Tall, narrow houses blocked the worst of the sun's force but also trapped the hot air in the street. Doucette wrinkled her nose at the mixture of strong smells: roasting meat and baking bread, the reek of livestock manure, the fragrance of ros
es that climbed over doorways.

  Attracted by the jingling progress of the armed party, heads popped out of open windows above the street. Two stories up, a small boy sat on a balcony between pots of blooming pinks, bouncing a stick over his knee. At the end of his makeshift fishing rod, a wooden hook dangled from a length of cord.

  As Doucette rode underneath, she reached up and tapped the hook playfully with her wand. "Good catch to you, Master Fisherman," she called.

  The boy shouted as the cord jerked from the weight of the painted metal fish Doucette's spell had left in the hook's place.

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  He flicked the line into his lap, jumped up, and ran inside, waving his new toy.

  "Ma!" she heard. "They're back to the castle. The swan maids, Ma!"

  Doucette straightened in the saddle. Her mare, knowing that water and grain waited in the stables ahead, quickened her pace. The file of riders bunched together, and Doucette found herself riding at her oldest sister's side.

  Although Azelais didn't touch the gold circlet that crowned her dark hair, every move betrayed her awareness of it. She glanced at Doucette and frowned. "Spending your magic on a town brat? Father won't be pleased."

  "Thank you for your counsel, Azelais," Doucette said, more pertly than she once would have dared. "I'm sure you know best, O Heir."

  "Jealous cat." Azelais's sneer promised retribution, but before she could loose her wand, Cecilia's mare nosed into the gap between Azelais and Doucette's mounts.

  Since their mutual defeat at Azelais's hands, Cecilia had begun to take Doucette's part. Once again she played the peacemaker, fanning herself with a languid hand. "It's too hot for quarreling. What I'd give for a cool drink.'"

  Doucette slowed the mare and let her sisters ride ahead. Accustomed as she had grown to the isolation of the Château de l'Île, she felt a little shy to see the number of people who had come out of the tile-roofed houses and shops to greet them. Women bobbed curtsies, while children ran at the riders' stirrups, cheering, until the horses clattered past the steaming