A Throne of Swans

by Katharine Corr

  Such care they’d taken of me. I clasp my hands together.

  If you can hear me, help me put things right. Please.

  The banquet this evening – the first since my uncle’s collapse – is supposedly held by his order to mark the fact that it is now only two weeks until Odette’s marriage. It’s traditional: the thirteenth eve before a wedding is reserved to honour the groom; the seventh eve, the bride. I don’t want to go, but I must: the important thing is to avoid drawing any attention to my growing horror of Siegfried. I have to convince him that I will go along with his plans. I’m getting out of my bath and Letya is laying out my clothes when there’s a knock at the door. She goes away, and returns a moment later with a large, linen-wrapped package.

  ‘What is it?

  She lays the package on the bed and undoes the ribbons. ‘Oh … You ordered a new dress?’

  Inside the linen is a scarlet silk gown. A red dress. I remember Siegfried’s praise of the dress I wore that evening at Deaufleur, and turn away.

  ‘Aderyn?’

  I can’t put my friend at risk. ‘Yes. I thought, perhaps, for the wedding banquets …’

  She takes the dress out and helps me into it. The skirt is heavy with rubies sewn in intricate patterns onto the silk. To my disappointment, it fits perfectly. And I know very well that Siegfried will know it fits – Gytha must have taken the measurements from the dress she gave me. I stand in front of the looking glass, Letya next to me.

  ‘Beautiful. I like the gold thread running through the silk. But it’s very …’ She gestures at the low-cut bodice.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You sound as if you don’t care for it, Aderyn. You have time to change.’

  ‘No. I’ll wear it for this evening.’ Letya is still frowning; I force a smile for her sake. ‘That will teach me to have a dress made up without consulting you first.’

  When Lucien arrives to escort me, his eyes widen.

  ‘Don’t you dare say anything,’ I murmur. ‘Siegfried sent it.’ If I survive the next few weeks, I will never wear red again.

  Our walk downstairs seems to take twice as long as usual. I try to bow and smile as normal as we pass other courtiers, but I’m growing paranoid. I study each face, wondering who is innocent, who has perhaps already been bought by Siegfried. It’s a relief to finally reach the great hall. Out of deference to my uncle’s continued illness, there is no music this evening: the gallery above the main door, where the harpists usually sit, is empty. But the hall itself is gorgeous with light and colour. There are huge stands of flowers everywhere: crimson roses, combined with spears of fiery-orange dragon’s tongue: the colours of the Dominion of Olorys. I stare down at the skirts of my red dress, feeling as if Siegfried has somehow marked me. Claimed me. When my cousins enter – Aron in black, escorting the queen, and Odette all in white as usual, on Siegfried’s arm – they look almost out of place amidst so many vibrant shades. Even the queen, her expression more animated than I’ve ever seen, is wearing Oloryan colours: a gown made up of layers of flame-coloured tulle. For the first time, I wonder where in Solanum she comes from. A footman approaches me and indicates that I should join the procession behind Odette and Siegfried. I walk in solitary state up to the high table, ahead of the other Protectors and heirs.

  The king’s place is left empty, so I am seated between Aron and – since Patrus is no longer here to trouble me – Grayling Wren. Grayling says nothing and flinches every time I speak to him; perhaps he thinks I make a habit of stabbing people with knitting needles. He makes no attempt to renew his offer of marriage.

  My cousin, in contrast, talks too much, rattling out words like garbled prayers. At one point, under the guise of carving some meat from a haunch of venison, he leans nearer to whisper in my ear, ‘I’m surprised Siegfried isn’t already warming his arse in my father’s chair. The House of Cygnus Olorys has got its talons well and truly into the crown.’

  It is not an enjoyable meal. We retire to the long gallery, as usual, and Siegfried makes a speech. He thanks the court for honouring Olorys, wishes the absent king a full and speedy recovery and thanks him and the queen for honouring him, and pays tribute to Odette’s beauty and virtue. At least he makes no false profession of love. Though Odette doesn’t seem to notice the omission.

  Siegfried spends most of the rest of the evening with her. They walk about the room, talking to the other courtiers, and as she leans on his arm she seems truly happy. And Siegfried … Siegfried looks happy too. Watching him smile at her, knowing what is in his heart, sickens me.

  The only other person who appears less than content is the queen. She seems to be continually watching the young couple, following their movements with a slight frown, a faint downward turn of the lips, marring her perfect features. My heart lifts slightly; if the queen is suspicious of Siegfried, then she is a potential ally.

  Siegfried doesn’t try to talk to me until nearly the end of the evening. I’ve gone out onto the terrace to get some air, when I realise he is beside me.

  ‘Don’t look so angry, Aderyn; our time will arrive soon enough. I have to at least pretend to hold your cousin in affection.’ He glances around to make sure we are completely alone, before brushing his fingers from my jawline down my throat and breastbone. I can’t repress a faint shudder of revulsion, but Siegfried merely chuckles; perhaps he takes it for desire. I let him kiss my hands, smiling in the teeth of my loathing, relieved that he has not guessed the true reason for my earlier expression of dismay. ‘You like the gown?’

  ‘Of course,’ I lie, ‘it’s beautiful.’ He seems to be waiting for something more, so I add, ‘And so thoughtful. Thank you, my lord.’

  He nods approvingly. ‘When I return from Olorys, I’ll come and find you.’

  Soon after this, I say goodnight to our host the queen – she embraces me, for the first time – and return to my apartment. I allow Letya to think I’ve gone to bed; once she’s blown out the candles and left, I get up again, return to the sitting room and throw open one of the tall windows. Lucien said he would come and take his leave of me before he flies to Atratys; I hope the cool night air will keep me awake despite my exhaustion. In the starlight, everything is hidden. Secret. The water of the fjord glimmers softly as the breeze ripples across it, but I cannot make out the tower that stands in its depths.

  ‘Your Grace …’ Lucien shakes my shoulder gently. I sit up and rub my eyes as he lights a candle and closes the shutters across the window. He’s wearing a long robe, his black hair dishevelled. ‘I’m ready to leave. Is there anything else you need me to do at Merl?’

  ‘No, thank you. Just the recipe for the counter-active. My father’s records are in some disorder; I hope it won’t take you too long to find.’ I frown. ‘Are you going to be able to carry the book?’

  ‘Once I’ve found the recipe I’ll make a copy. I have carried some heavy loads while flying, but it’s not ideal. Trying to work out the adjustments that have to be made to maintain lift gives me a headache.’ He smiles a little. ‘If you insist on going through with your plan, please be careful. I still don’t like it. I don’t like you being here alone either. What are the chances that this counter-active will even work?’

  ‘My father was a very skilled chemist. And I won’t be alone. I have Letya. And my cousins.’ I swallow hard. ‘I am sorry, Lucien. You shouldn’t be involved in this. If I could have done as you asked, if I could have left the past alone, I swear I would have …’

  ‘I understand, I think.’ Sighing, he rubs the back of his head. ‘None of this is your fault, my lady. Not really. Your mother falling in love with your father – Aron’s accident – the king’s vengefulness – Siegfried’s ambition: all these roads have led us here. A spider’s web of events that we’ve both been caught up in.’ He half stretches one hand towards me – but drops it to his side. ‘We can’t any of us out-fly fate.’

  There’s a heaviness to his voice that sends a shiver down my spine. Before I can question it, he
turns away a little.

  ‘I should leave now. If the winds are with me, and if I find the recipe quickly, I hope to return in three days. Four at the most.’

  ‘Greet your father for me. And Lucien – good luck.’ Before I can change my mind, my pulse quickening, I stand on tiptoe and kiss him on the cheek. ‘Fly swift. Fly straight.’

  ‘And may the Creator guide you.’ He finishes the saying, gazing down at me with those burning black eyes of his, a hint of surprise – and something else, something I can’t identify – lurking at the back of them. I blow out the candle and Lucien opens the shutters again, so that the pale black of the windows shows against the deep black of the surrounding shadows. ‘Stand back,’ he whispers in my ear.

  I obey. From the other side of the room I can see Lucien only in silhouette. He removes his robe, places it on a nearby chair, crouches down a little – as if he’s about to race – and runs. Runs at the open window in front of him, leaps through it –

  For a feather’s breadth I see him, stretched out in the air as if he is diving, but then he plunges downward, out of sight –

  Rushing to the window, heart pounding, one hand clamped to my mouth, I’m terrified that I will see him falling to his death. See his body broken on the rocks beneath the palace.

  But he’s not there.

  Not as a human.

  Instead, an enormous raven, a swift black silhouette against the night sky, is already flying out to sea.

  Siegfried departs the following morning. I decide to wait until the afternoon to make my attempt at breaking into his apartment; the castle corridors are usually less busy after lunch. The door will certainly be locked, but I have a plan. I’m going to make use of the gossip that has been spread about me for my own ends.

  The elderly guest master is in his office giving instructions to various underlings when I approach.

  ‘Your Grace.’ He pushes himself up from his desk, hisses at a hovering footman –‘Get out, Porrin!’ – and bows. ‘How may I assist you? I trust you are here on no serious matter?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ He hasn’t seen me since he came to remove Patrus from my rooms. ‘I need a key, that’s all.’

  ‘Another key … to your apartment?’

  ‘No.’ I lift my chin, ignoring the churning in my stomach. ‘I need to borrow a key to Lord Siegfried’s apartment. He is visiting Olorys, of course, but I’ve realised I left something in his room last night; a personal item of mine.’ The guest master’s face has taken on a rigid quality; he is certainly judging me, but equally clearly he cannot be seen to. ‘I would ask one of his servants, but … you understand our position. So soon after the groomsday banquet.’ I force a laugh. ‘I feel, however, that I can trust in your discretion.’

  My flattery works: the guest master manages to look disapproving and yet somehow gratified at the same time.

  ‘Of course, Your Grace. Not another word is necessary.’ He disappears into another room and emerges a couple of minutes later with a key in his hand. ‘If Your Grace would be so good as to return it in due course …’

  ‘Indeed.’ I take the key, pressing a gold coin into his gloved hand, and leave.

  The key stowed safely in my pocket, I go to the north wing and roam the corridors and public rooms near Siegfried’s apartment for a little while, partly to get a sense of where the Dark Guards are stationed, mostly to build up my courage. Eventually I can’t stand to wait any longer. Checking for the last time that no one is in sight, I let myself into the main room and lock the door behind me.

  It’s a sitting room, smaller than mine and facing onto the city, somewhat sparsely furnished. There’s a desk between the windows, a harpsichord to one side, a tall bookcase in an alcove to my left and a couple of sofas and small tables. The door in the far corner must lead to his bedroom. I decide to start with the desk. There are papers collected in the obvious drawers, but all seem to relate to the administration of Olorys: letters of introduction, requests for intervention in land disputes, the sorts of things that are sitting piled on my own desk at home. I begin pressing various decorated panels within the desk, hoping for the revelation of a secret compartment, but it seems to be a depressingly ordinary piece of furniture. And I know from the chimes of the clock that I’ve already been here a quarter of an hour. As I stand there, hands on my hips, trying to decide whether to check the bookcase next, or try the bedroom, the castle bell begins to toll. And there are footsteps, running in the corridor outside …

  I hurry towards the door, but I can hear voices now – the sound of a key in the lock – in a panic I wedge myself into the alcove next to the bookcase as the door opens.

  It’s a youngish man, one of Siegfried’s servants, I guess. I’m trying not to breathe, but my heart is thumping so hard it’s difficult not to gasp for air. The man has his back to me; he sits at the desk, gets out some paper and a pen and begins writing. All I can do is wait.

  The clock has just chimed away another quarter of an hour when the man gets up and disappears from view for a moment. My muscles are cramping, but I don’t dare move. There’s a knock at the door; the man – a letter in his hand – opens it, and I hear his voice: ‘Take this to L’Ammergeia. Quick as you can; if you can catch up with his lordship, I expect he’ll make it worth your while.’ He must be talking to one of the pages who live at the Citadel – young, lower-ranking nobles who are employed as a messenger service. Perhaps, now the letter is written and handed over, the servant will leave.

  He doesn’t. Instead, he stays in the room and starts tidying. I begin to feel faint; there’s a pile of books on a table nearby, and if he decides to replace them in the bookcase –

  Another knock at the door. It opens, and a housemaid walks in, followed by some sort of workman. The maid drops a curtsy. ‘We’re to see about the loose floorboard in His Lordship’s bedroom.’ She nods to the workman and they move towards the door in the corner, as Siegfried’s servant follows them and begins to dispute their right to carry out the work …

  All three of them enter the bedroom, and the door to the corridor is standing open –

  Walk, not run – act as if you belong here … To my relief, the corridor is empty. I make it back to my rooms – just – before I throw up.

  Letya looks after me. She assumes it must have been something I ate, puts me to bed and goes to see my cousins, to tell them I will not be joining them for supper. My failed attempt has exhausted me. I fall asleep with Siegfried’s key tucked underneath my pillow.

  The next morning, after Letya has brought my breakfast, I send her back to the guest master. The keys are all so similar – just tiny variations in the arrangement of the teeth – that I am reasonably confident the old man will not notice my deceit. The key Letya gives him is not the key to Siegfried’s apartment, but one of the spare keys to my own quarters.

  I’m planning to make a second attempt to search Siegfried’s rooms this afternoon, but anxiety is making my head ache. Anxiety, mingled with unreasonable disappointment that Lucien has not yet returned. My father’s note-taking was meticulous but extensive; at his death, there were notebooks everywhere, strewn across tables, chairs, the floor. I had them gathered up and locked into bookcases, but in no particular order. It’s hardly surprising if Lucien is struggling to find the recipe.

  In an effort to clear my head, Letya and I go riding before lunch. The fresh air does me good. Still, I can feel my knees trembling beneath my long skirts as I head back to the north wing. I’m almost at Siegfried’s apartment when the door opens and Siegfried himself emerges.

  The shock nearly fells me. ‘My lord …’

  ‘Aderyn.’ He smiles, but there’s a faint hint of suspicion in his eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘My waiting woman told me she’d heard you had returned. And I’ve missed you …’ The ease with which I lie disgusts me; another symptom of the Citadel’s corrupting influence perhaps. Still, my words appear to reassure Siegfried.

  ‘Of
course you have. Come.’ He turns back into his room. ‘I have a few moments.’ With the door shut, I’m scared that he might try to kiss me again. But instead he takes my hand and leads me to a sofa as he starts talking about our future at the Citadel. How, once he is king, he will have me moved to an apartment next to his own with an inter-connecting door. How we will explore Olorys and Atratys together. Idle conversation, seemingly. But I am beginning to think that, with Siegfried, every sentence – every word – should be weighed for double meaning.

  He seems a little distracted and sends me away again before long. I return to my own apartment, the stolen key still in my pocket, wondering what I can do to be certain of gaining undisturbed access to his rooms. I’ve considered and rejected the idea of bribing one of Siegfried’s servants, when I notice a letter that has been left on the sideboard. The wax disc sealing the folded paper is marked with the royal coat of arms – it’s from the queen.

  A twinge of excitement bubbles up beneath my ribs as I break the seal. Perhaps she has found out about Siegfried. Perhaps the wedding is cancelled …

  I read the letter through twice as my excitement fades into doubt. The contents inform me that three members of Convocation were arrested yesterday – was that why the castle bell was being rung? These nobles, one each from the Dominions of Lancorphys, Dacia and Fenian, have been accused of high treason against the crown. The trial is tomorrow evening. And I am summoned, since I am a Protector, to play the role of judge.

  Nothing to do with the wedding. Nothing, on the face of it, to do with Siegfried, though I seem to see his shadow everywhere.

  I wish Lucien were here.

  Thirteen

  But the wishing does not help. The best part of another morning wears away, and Lucien does not come. Instead, I go in search of Aron.

  I find him – eventually – in the formal gardens. He is sitting on a bench with a small knife in his hand, carving his initials into the trunk of a beech tree.