The Golden Swan

by Nancy Springer

  One morning I noticed that the fern flower’s exquisite petals were bent far back, that they were turning fawn brown at the edges.

  “You are dying!” I exclaimed. “But why?”

  I AM NOT DYING IN THE USUAL CUT-FLOWER WAY, it said primly. I AM PREPARING SEED.

  I remembered something about seed. “How is it to be spread?” I asked. “The wind?”

  YOU WILL TAKE IT, I SUPPOSE. YOU ARE MY LORD. The fern flower droned happily to itself, a honey-humming sound. MY SCIONS WILL FLOWER THROUGHOUT THE WORLD, CONFER THE POWER …

  I turned away lest I say something impolite. I was getting tired of this “lord” business, and I did not want to spend the rest of my immortal life plodding about planting seeds.

  SONG OF THE ONE WILL SOUND ONCE MORE.

  Seedsong be damned. I had been wandering for years; I very much wanted to go back to my homeland and stay there. A lord, indeed! I was Alys’s fool, as always, unless I was Shamarra’s. I caught sight of a hootoo bird and kicked at a clod of lush grass before I could stop myself.

  LONN D’AERIC, said a familiar voice, THERE IS NO NEED TO SULK.

  I spun about in startled recognition. It was the leafy vastness above me, the World Tree, I knew that. But the voice, aloof and amused and tender all at once.…

  “Alys?” I cried.

  “So, you know me these days.” She sounded almost friendly. “I am here, as I am everywhere. I have always been within compass of your call, Frain. Can you see that now?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Do not be so afraid. You have done well, splendidly well. I would be honored even to have you banging at me with rocks again.”

  I blushed and said nothing. Dair and Maeve came up to stand beside me.

  “You have earned your wings, Lonn D’Aeric, Swan Lord,” said Alys. “Let wings take you wherever you wish to go, with my blessing. Your quest is done.”

  “But—” I stopped, mired in ignorance.

  “What is it?”

  “The fern flower said—”

  “You have done your part.” She sounded amused again. “The task of spreading the seed belongs to the wandering wolf here.”

  He was a man at the moment. Me? he said, rather stupidly.

  “Yes, indeed, Dair. Have you forgotten already? Are you not Trevyn’s son? He brought the magic back to Isle, and you shall bring a better magic back to the mainland world, an understanding for all people, not just a special few. You have been a part of the One’s greatest dream, you three travelers. Maeve understands these things when she is thinking, but you two—” Alys began to sound annoyed. “Frain, will you consider only that insignificant Vale? And Dair! You know you have been born for something special. Will you never give a thought to anything except your friend here and your next meal?”

  I stole a glance at him. The look on his face was tragic.

  “Oh, come, now.” Alys’s tone softened. “You do well enough, Dair. You are a creature of instinct, wolfwit, I know that.”

  Am I no longer to follow Frain at all? Dair whispered, stricken. I reached over and put an arm around him; I had to. There was a long silence.

  “You may follow him yet a little while,” the goddess said at last. “You will know when the time comes to leave him.”

  “And I am done?” I asked.

  “Yes. Fly away, Frain.”

  “And Maeve?”

  “She knows her destiny as well as I do. Ask her.” The tone was one of dismissal. Golden leaves rustled as if with the passing of a spirit, then were still.

  “Goodbye, Mother,” Maeve murmured. “For now.”

  I looked at her. Though she seemed very old to me—as she had looked old ever since she had confronted Alys for my sake—in that moment she did not seem old in the dying way. Maeve reminded me of the fern flower. She seemed pregnant with something, full.

  “One final form for me,” she said in answer to my glance. She smiled in that gentle way of hers. “My quest is over, Frain. I will remain here, and my life will end here. Not everyone is so fortunate, to come back to their Source for life’s completion.”

  “Are you thinking of going up as a dragonfly, perhaps?” I asked, trying to match her soft, unimpassioned tone.

  “No, I am not to fly, Frain. You are the flyer. Will you soon be ready?”

  I looked away to the western distance, to where the dark green treetop canopy turned bluish and met the mist. “A few days, I think.”

  “When you are ready, I will show you.”

  I walked and ate and slept and dreamed. Wings flickered in my dreams. The fern flower turned limp and entirely brown, a nut-brown seedpod growing amidst the withered petals. Then the petals fell away. The pod was firm and full. One day I felt the strength and urgency that told me it was time to fly. I went to Maeve. She looked at me and nodded, then handed the seedpod to Dair.

  “It will never be depleted,” she said. “It will last you till world’s end.” Then in a quite different tone she added, “Son, let me kiss you—”

  Dair did not know how to kiss. He let her kiss him, and he nuzzled her wordlessly.

  “Now.…” said Maeve, and she closed her eyes.

  She did it so well, so beautifully. Her hair turned to feathers the color of polished bronze; they lapped around her neck like a warrior’s mail, and a fringe of mane grew below. Her face was that of an eagle, with a great ivory beak; her hands were gleaming talons. With intense clarity I noticed the amber tufts of feathers just above them, floating airily, the feathery tuft of hair at the end of her leonine tail. She was all colors of gold, shining sungold and burnished bronze; she was a griffin and she settled in her place at the roots of the Tree, its guardian.

  People will come here from time to time now, she said, but only seers and healers may approach the Tree.

  “But the other one,” I stammered, meaning the griffin in the passageway.

  He is long gone. You gave him his freedom, Lonn D’Aerie. I could hear her amusement. As was his due, she added.

  “But—” I stopped. I wanted no more of this “lord” business, and no teasing either.

  You are a swan lord, she said gently. An immortal. Fly away, Frain.

  “Farewell, Maeve,” I whispered.

  Farewell. Dair—tend him well.

  You know I always do, Dair growled.

  I faced the west, blinking, and let my thoughts take wing within me. To fly, to soar over that sea of forest, over the white mountain wall and away—somewhere out there, beyond, lay Vale—

  I felt my body bend, my arms extend and russet feathers grow, flowerlike but far faster, petals tilted to the wind. No pain, but it was hard not to panic at the strangeness, even so—I had to call on an inner strength to let the change happen, as I would to let healing happen. This was much like healing in a way. I felt my vision sharpen, my body turn hard, immense muscles encasing my chest, taut pinions—I was a red hawk, and I felt all the keen windlust of the raptor.

  A gray falcon stood beside me, the fern stalk held in his beak.

  GIVE YOURSELF TO THE SKY, Dair said.

  I gave myself to the sky as I had to desert and lake and sea. Ai, the feel of air through feathers, the whistling sound.… We flew. Once around the World Tree we circled—at last I could see the leaves; they were translucent jewels, aureate but oval of shape and pointed, like the gibbous moon, sun and moon in one. We did not dare aspire to the top of it—some things should remain forever hidden. We circled once and spiraled upward, red hawk and gray falcon, and then away, through the mist, and left the Source behind us.

  INTERLUDE III

  from The Book of Suns

  Now you have known frightened men to say that the final days will come in wrath and a rain of fire and a dark abyss and the tramplings of fierce horses. But I tell you, dear children, that shame speaks in those words, and there is no need of shame and fear within the working of the pattern to its fullness. I tell you that the days of strife are now, and they will end in the sweet
scent of flowers and a great peace passing into eternity and the tide of time quieting into deep ocean with scarcely a ripple. And some of you may yet live to see those days, People of Peace, and surely your descendants will.

  How will it happen, that the unicorn days will come again and the song be sung once more? All that is necessary is that the magic should come back from the reaches, that the fern seed should be spread. When that passing comes the world will be filled with brightness and singing and understanding, mindful and heartfelt—birds, bears, men and wolves and quail and celandine, wind and sea, whatever is, they all will speak and understand. And no creature will need to kill or eat anymore, even so much as grass, and whatever gives of itself will do so willingly. When the panther and the deer lie down together on the heather, the heather will rejoice. And then that rejoicing will fill me and I will sing.

  And then the unicorn will stand on the shore of Elwestrand. I will sing the song of the unicorn, the fair white shy one of shining horn, and when he lifts his forefoot and strikes it to that shore all the mountains of earth will dissolve and slide into the sea, softly, gently, with sunset cloud and rainbow spray, and all who watch that union will smile. And then I will sing the second song of the unicorn, and the unicorn will stand on the soft hills of Isle, and when he touches his horn to those hills the sky will come down and embrace the sea-washed earth. And I will sing the final song of the unicorn, and the white winged unicorn will spring up and fly above the land of Vale, and sun will wed with moon in a blaze of love. And day and night will once again be One, and seasons, and elements, and life and death; all who lived in the sunlit lands will be at One with unity and the infinite. And the spinning of time will stop, and the great wheel will no longer turn, the stars will swim at will in the sea and the shuttle lie still on the loom. And the pattern will be done.

  What is the sign? When the Swan Lord comes to the Source and plucks the fern flower that is water and fire, those days will be on the horizon of time. And when the scion of Isle has spread the seed, those days will be at hand.

  Now I have told you the tales of the Sun Kings of Isle. But who is this Swan Lord, you ask me, that we should await him? Elder Folk, he will be one who has suffered much and has earned his rest, this most blessed and consummate rest.

  DAIR REPRISE

  I am Dair, who flew to Vale with Frain, side by side, wingtip to wingtip—I remember the silent bond between us. I wanted that time to last, but it went quickly. The passage did not take long, flying—only a few days. We scarcely stopped even to eat or rest. The trees did not appeal to us. They looked tiny, puny, stunted to us, and their leaves were that dull, unmagical green. In Vale the land looked bright as blood but wounded. There were great ruts and scarrings where armies had been. Summer is the season of war.

  I am too late, said Frain, dismayed.

  THE GODDESS SAID YOU ARE NO PART OF THIS PATTERN, I told him, mindspeaking. I could not talk even in my wolfish manner with the fern stalk clutched in my beak. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE BEEN ABLE TO DO? I asked.

  I—don’t know. I just always hoped—something. To help Tirell somehow, and Shamarra.

  TIRELL IS VERY KINO. PERHAPS HE HAS BEEN ABLE TO HELP HIMSELF. PERHAPS HE IS ALL RIGHT.

  I knew better. There was justice to be attended to. I knew that. Frain said nothing.

  We followed the marks, skimming above the red soil of Vale. They led us to the court city of Melior, Frain’s childhood home, all awash in water, the river gone mad, but it was still standing, shining and beautiful—Tirell must have had strong magic of his own. Frain could not speak, I could tell; his breastfeathers quivered with the force of his heartbeat. I have never fully understood childhood, myself, though I know it is a strong tug in humans.… Melior was a fair place. There were young fruit trees in the courtyard, all in bloom, though their time was long past. An owl flew from the topmost tower, abroad in daylight, in strong sunlight, even.

  Auguries, said Frain tightly.

  There were few folk about. Tirell must have met Raz’s invading army on the other side of the flooded river, and it seemed he had managed to push it back. Back, back, the trail of torn earth led, over the great central plain of Vale. We followed, and in a few moments we sighted tumult of battle on the horizon, a mass of struggling men, and those ugly Luoni swarming around it like flies around an ulcer. We dove through them—

  Tirell! Frain cried. He darted downward.

  I admit I had never believed all of what Frain had said about Tirell. But I believed it then, with my first look at him. I caught my breath in awe at the very sight of him. He was half a head taller than any man I had ever seen, regal and fearsome, with raven black hair and flashing eyes, godlike in beauty—it must have been hard, very hard, for Frain to have stood all those years in his shadow. Enemies swarmed about him on all sides, trying to pull him down, and he was fighting them all off, fighting like ten men, lithe and furious as a great cat. Even so, I did not see how he could prevail. And as they dragged at his arms a bald and leering king confronted him, bronze sword raised—

  Frain stooped with a hawk’s scream, raking the man across the shoulders with sharp talons, startling him so that he threw up his shield arm. The next moment he lost his life to Tirell’s blow. Frain took human form and stood beside his brother.

  “So much for Sethym,” he remarked.

  He spoke in the language of Vale, and I understood him. Could it be that I understood all such tongues now since the fern flower, all things? I in wolf form—I stood four-footed beside Frain, snarling, and the attackers who had hounded Tirell fell back for a moment, unnerved by my unaccountable appearance or Frain’s. Tirell did not notice me. He was standing like a shaft of marble, motionless, his fair, pale face gone white as stone.

  “Frain!” he gasped, sudden tears starting down his cheeks. “But how—flying in—are you a spirit?”

  “Touch me and see,” Frain invited, grinning even as the tears started from his own eyes.

  In an instant they had joined in a tight embrace, hugging and pummeling each other, laughing and sobbing. I don’t think they could have stayed away from each other, and such a gesture seemed to suit them, their history, that they should embrace in the midst of a battlefield. Already enemies approached them. I menaced, sending some back a step, and Frain broke away from his brother and parried a blow that had been aimed at Tirell’s shoulder, picking up a dead man’s dropped sword.

  “Confound it, brother, don’t expect me to do everything for you!” he shouted gaily, still laughing through tears. “Defend yourself! There is a row going on here.”

  Tirell cleared a space around himself with a single mighty swipe of his long blade. But the press of battle was hard, and a struggling, trampling mass of men came between him and Frain. And then Frain started fighting in earnest.

  I had heard once of a long-ago folk who had done battle naked, without even helms, hair flying free, glorying in the strength and skill of their exposed bodies, with only a bare sword for protection—Frain fought that way, magnificent. Amidst all the shining bronze he gleamed splendid with his own sheen, sweat sheen—or was it something more, glow of power? Wholeness, unity of self and purpose had given him great power, unicorn power. He could do nothing wrong, no harm could come to him, his sword moved as if guided by magic, faultlessly, faster than the eye could follow, as he opened a way for himself, cut a path straight as the unicorn’s horn through the clash of armies to his brother’s side, and I followed in his wake, skulking.

  Tirell had taken a cut on the forehead. But those who attacked him dropped back as we drew near, and he paused a moment in his labors of war to look at us.

  “Like a god,” he marveled softly. “Mighty shoulders and two strong arms.… What is that furry thing sheltering at your feet?”

  “A friend.” Frain turned to stand at Tirell’s side. “Come on, brother,” he invited, his tone fierce and joyous. “We will take them together.”

  They touched hands briefly in warbond.

&n
bsp; “Where’s that Raz?”

  “Up ahead,” Tirell said.

  We formed line of battle, the three of us. Tirell roared at his men to follow and we pressed forward, Frain flanking Tirell to the left and I to the right, bristling hugely and hoping no warrior would come near me, for this sort of combat was new and strange and terrible to me, all smiting and cries and straining legs, far too many and too much—I might have been killed several times over, but I walked under the protection of Tirell’s long sword. He fought splendidly, and Frain with all the golden force of his lordship, and they overcame or overawed all whom they met, True King and Swan Lord. We made our way steadily forward.

  “There, a bit left,” Tirell said grimly at last. “By the snakes.”

  My hackle hairs rose unbidden. Great serpents reared their vicious, flat and pointed heads above the battlefield, each one twice the height of a man. In their midst, and flanked by a bodyguard of bronze-helmed footsoldiers as well, rode Raz the renegade canton king. His mount stood seventeen hands and massive, giving him a borrowed stature—he had none of his own. Even at the distance, all gilded and jeweled and lapped in armor and wrapped in fine robes, he showed for what he was—short, fat, and, by his posture, arrogant.

  “I am not looking forward to taking on the snakes,” Tirell added. “I have heard that they spit.”

  Venom, he meant. I tried not to cringe.

  “No need,” said Frain. “Let us just make a little space here.”

  Tirell set to work without hesitation, clearing away enemies, and Frain stood still, gazing ahead intently toward where the serpents loomed.

  “Laifrita thae, arledas!” he called, a high, carrying shout that sped the distance as if on wings. “Sweet peace to thee, earth-brothers!” It was the creature tongue I knew from my earliest days and loved, the Old Language. Just hearing it, I felt blessed.