Rumbold could do nothing but nod. The Infidel lifted Elisa into the kindling skiff and tied the long end of her bonds to the rowlock. He took hold of the tow-rope and boarded the empty skiff. The soldiers shoved both boats out into the waves before jumping in with the Infidel and rowing out to sea.
Friday did not know how close they would get to Mordant’s ship before they set Elisa’s boat aflame. Friday squinted into the rising sun—she could see two red-clad figures on the deck of the large ship, waiting. What she didn’t see were archers with flaming arrows, or any other evidence of fire. Then how were they going to do it?
Mordant’s sorceress stepped forward against the rail of the ship and raised her arms to the sky. She threw her head back and yelled to the gods in a language that sounded like the sea itself. The wind picked up, ripping the red scarf from her head; her long black hair swirled around her like dark fire. Her cockatrice, awake now, flew in a circle above her. As the pet’s scales and her fingertips caught the light of the sun, both the fiery bird and Gana’s hands burst into flame.
The crowd on the shore gasped. Friday gasped with them. Ben barked his disapproval.
Slowly, Gana lowered one burning hand and pointed to the skiff before her. Elisa stood tall, feet planted in the center of the boat, facing the sorceress. There was a flicker and a puff of smoke as the prow of the skiff caught fire.
Friday died a little when she saw the boat burning. She willed Elisa to scoop up some seawater and extinguish the fire, but the girl made no move to do so. The flames grew higher. Gana’s triumphant cackle echoed across the water.
Friday stepped away from Monday and ran to the water’s edge, heedless of her skirt. Ben was loud and quick on her heels. She pushed through the crowd that had already braved the water; she would have leapt into the waves, but her inexperience with oceans held her back. They were not out that far. Perhaps if she started walking . . .
From the corner of her eye, Friday noticed that another figure had waded into the shallows. In the dawn light, Mr. Humbug’s hat cast a long shadow and his yellow eyes almost glowed. He turned to Friday and raised both his eyebrows and one index finger.
Wait.
Friday drew in one slow, deep breath and let it out just as slowly. Another screeching flock of seagulls drowned out Gana’s laughter, until Ben’s bark scattered them again. Barking, and then more barking . . . and then more not barking. Honking.
The swans had come.
Friday watched them soar over the hill in a majestic “V,” large and white and determined as vengeful angels. The sunlight gleamed off their bright wings, blinding everyone below in their glory. Friday cheered them on as they passed above her. The crowd on the shore cheered with her.
The swans broke formation as they approached the skiffs; five headed for Elisa and two veered right, straight for the red-clad figures on the large ship. They batted Gana’s cockatrice out of the air with their enormous wings; the sorceress’s laughter turned to a scream. She tried to catch the smoldering body of her unconscious pet before it slipped overboard. Mordant crouched, as if to use the rail as a shield. At the cry of his mistress, the Infidel dropped Elisa’s tow-rope, and the second skiff rowed quickly to the large boat. The soldiers on the deck rallied, but did not know where to attack. The birds continued to swoop and fly and dive again and again.
While her enemies were distracted, Elisa snatched up the bag Friday had dropped in the boat. Hands still bound, she awkwardly dumped the contents onto the smoldering sticks at her feet. One by one, she tossed the shirts into the air. One by one, the swans surrounding her dove into them and fell into the ocean until there were only two left.
Though the birds had not yet transformed back into men, Friday knew which brother-swans had attacked the ship: Tristan and Sebastien. Tristan would have led the charge and Sebastien, the brother who did not want to return to the world of men, would have been right at his side. Friday did not know which of them would be forced to wear the shirt with one sleeve, or what the consequences of that might be—she only hoped they had done enough to break the spell.
Satisfied that the other five were safe, the Tristan and Sebastien swans left Mordant and his sorceress and spun back toward their sister’s burning skiff. Elisa valiantly tossed the last two shirts high into the air over her head.
Before the swans could reach them, the shirts burst into flame.
The birds attempted to dive inside the shirts anyway, but the material fell to ashes around them. Elisa covered her mouth with her hands; Friday could feel Elisa’s scream in her throat and so Friday yelled it for her.
Gana, who had regained her footing, clapped her flaming hands together in triumph.
Elisa bent down to the bag again, but Friday knew that no more shirts would magically appear inside. They had only managed seven—and barely that. They had failed. She had failed. And Michael, her family, the kingdom was present to watch her defeat.
Elisa straightened again with one more thing in her hand: the crude stinging-nettle mat she’d first made. With nothing left to lose, she threw that up into the air as well.
The brothers fought—not to catch the mat, but to force the other to do so. Sebastien-swan and Tristan-swan honked and swooped. They beat at each other with their wings and feet, nipping with their beaks when they could. Feathers flew into the air around them and fluttered down to the sea. They fought as human brothers would, ultimately tangling their limbs together and plummeting into the waves. One swan shifted, pushing the other into the mat that floated there upon the tide—and then the two of them sank out of sight.
Friday held her breath, straining to see above the waves. Had it worked?
“I am Elisa, Princess of Kassora and the Green Isles!” The mousy girl’s unused voice croaked at the large ship. “I accuse the sorceress Gana of witchcraft and the murder of innocent children, and I seek asylum in Arilland!”
Elisa grew taller as she spoke, her thin limbs filling out beneath her tattered dress into the form of a healthy young woman. Her hair became longer and lighter, shining like hammered gold in the waxing sunlight. In the water around her, lumps of feathers and fiber changed to thrashing human limbs. A strong wind from the east swirled around Elisa’s skiff and extinguished the flames.
The curse was broken.
With a wave of Rumbold’s hand, his guards rushed forth into the sea, followed by most of the crowd. Mordant’s ship, now with the Infidel safely aboard, lifted anchor, raised sails, and fled into the open waters. The masses cheered again, hurling increasingly inventive threats and insults at the retreating vessel.
Amidst the excitement that threatened to overwhelm her at any moment, Friday saw Mr. Humbug walking toward her through the surf. He took her by the hand. “It’s over,” he said. “You did well, princess.”
“Thank you,” said Friday. She let him lead her out of the water and back to where her family stood on the shore. But it was not finished. She would not be satisfied until she had seen Tristan emerge from the waves.
“We did it!” Sunday said as she put her arms around Friday.
“Did we?” asked Friday, but no one answered. She refused to feel anything until she saw the siblings back on dry ground. All of them.
“Mordant escaped.” It was obvious that Velius blamed himself for not having enough power to make the man pay for his crimes.
“For now,” said Rumbold. “Only for now. He has made enemies this day.”
The crowd on the shore rushed forward to help the men walking out of the waves. Friday saw François, Christian, Philippe, and the twins. The five of them wore only the nettle shirts that now covered them to their knees, but they seemed whole and hale.
There was not yet any sign of Tristan or Sebastien.
Rumbold’s guards swam to Elisa’s skiff and sawed her bonds free. She was carried to shore and met with blankets and kindness and the embrace of the doting crowd and her tall, strong brothers.
All but two of them.
Rumbold and S
unday moved to greet the siblings with the rest of the crowd. Friday stayed, frozen in place, staring at the flaming boat on the horizon and the empty waves surrounding it. Monday stayed with her. The sun had risen enough now that the clouds were no longer pink with dawn.
“He didn’t make it,” Friday whispered into the wind. “I couldn’t save him.” She could still feel the joy of the crowd, the relief of the swan-brothers, and the concern from her family, but in the middle of all that was a numbness, a hole that would never again be filled. The stories said that those who lost their soul mates were destined to wander the earth as soul wraiths, forever lost and alone. If that were true, Sister Carol would have no reason to deny her the life of a dedicate. Not that it would be much of a life at all, without Tristan.
“You saved them.” Monday indicated the five brothers and their sister.
Philippe joined them. The magic nettle shirt had grown along with him, covering him to his knees like an oversized shirt of chain mail. “It’s what he would have wanted.”
“Yes.” Her tears fell freely now. Friday said the word because she knew it was true. Saving his brothers and sister was what Tristan would have wanted. Sebastien as well. But at what cost? They should at least have been resigned to life as a swan instead of no life at all. She turned to the brother who looked so much like Tristan that it was almost painful. She could sense something still eating away inside of him. Something dark. “What would you have wanted?”
Philippe’s unyielding stare never left Mordant’s ship. “To kill Mordant, no matter the price.”
Friday’s hurt drowned in the intensity of Philippe’s hatred. It was as if the curse keeping him a swan had also kept this unabashed loathing bottled, and now both it and its master were free.
“I will not rest until I feel his blood on my hands. I will sever his head from his body and hang it from the ramparts of Kassora by his entrails. His bitch will die far more slowly and painfully. Her body will be cut into a thousand tiny pieces and scattered on the wind.”
Friday wasn’t sure which made her more ill: the gruesome mental images, Philippe’s unrestrained desire for them to come to fruition, or that she felt herself swept up in the anger with him, mourning the loss of her beloved and desperate to strike back at something in return. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and attempted to calm both herself and Philippe. “Mordant will be defeated. Your brothers will see to that. And Arilland would love nothing more than to come to your aid.” Technically that last part wasn’t in her power to promise, but she did it anyway. “Right now, you should be concentrating on your family.” As she should concentrate on hers, but just now her heart wasn’t in it.
He turned to her, his eyes burning with a blue fire hotter than what Gana had been able to summon. “I assure you, princess, for the past few years I have concentrated on nothing but my family.”
There was nothing to say but “I’m sorry.”
He smiled then, and that smile scared her more than falling from the sky tower. “There is nothing to forgive, Friday. Through your efforts, our curse has been broken. But this is far from over.” He turned back to the sea. “Worry not; I will end it.”
Don’t worry? There were few things in Friday’s life that had ever worried her more.
Ben barked again at a lone gull spinning over the burning skiff and heading to shore. Friday wiped away the tears blurring her vision. It was not a gull. It was a swan. Only one.
Friday and Elisa both ran sluggishly through the water to where the swan landed on the shore.
“Is it . . . ?” Elisa began, with a voice still strange to both of them.
“One of ours?” finished Friday. “It must be.”
“But which one?”
Friday was afraid to guess and ashamed to admit she couldn’t tell. And then Ben began to bark again. The swan joined in the cacophony with excited honks. Beside them, a body covered in feathers washed up on the shore. Friday and Elisa fell to their knees to pull him out.
It was Tristan.
Heart racing, Friday tried to move the overly large feathers obscuring his face so that he could breathe . . . but for every feather she tried to shift, three more swept back in.
“Why won’t these blasted feathers move?” she yelled in frustration.
“Oh, Friday,” gasped Elisa.
Friday pulled Tristan’s body into a sitting position and the feathers fell away . . . but they didn’t go far. She slid her hands up Tristan’s bare arms and around his back to where the giant white wings attached in a downy patch between his shoulders.
“What have I done?” whispered Friday.
“You saved us,” Elisa whispered back, as Tristan coughed up mouthful after mouthful of water. When he’d caught his breath, Friday peppered his face with kisses and hugged him as if she’d never let him go. Friday felt Elisa’s joy at the sight. The girl had five other brothers to fuss over—she could do without this one for a moment more.
Someone else, however, could not.
A shadow fell over Tristan and Friday. Above them, a large man cleared his throat. Friday looked up to see Papa and Peter blocking out the bright sky with their huge bodies.
“I’m happy to see you’re well and all, son,” said Papa, “but I am forced to ask: What are your intentions toward my daughter?”
Tristan smiled. Peter swallowed a laugh. Friday blushed, suddenly realizing how this must look to her father.
Apart from the giant feathered wings, Tristan was naked as the day they’d met.
12
Infernal Wings
TRISTAN BENT HIS KNEES and hunched forward, curling into a ball in an attempt to cover himself. He had not been embarrassed in Friday’s presence before, but he was starting to be. This was not the way he wanted to greet the world as a man after so many years.
A third shadow joined Friday’s father and brother above him. “Greetings, Tristan. I am Rumbold, Friday’s less-hulking brother.”
Rumbold . . . the king? Fantastic. “Forgive me for not rising to greet you, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t mention it. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I believe I have just the thing for that.”
Tristan hoped the man didn’t offer his shirt; he was fairly sure there was no way to get any sort of tunic around the monstrous wings now sprouting from his back. It was one thing to have an impressive wingspan when one was a sizeable swan, but this? Would he have to go bare chested the rest of his life?
Thankfully, King Rumbold did not remove his shirt, only the knee-length velvet cape around his shoulders. One of the king’s men—not a guard, Tristan could tell from his clothing, possibly some higher-ranking official—wrapped the cape around Tristan’s hips and affixed it on the side with a pin.
“Thank you.” Tristan was incredibly grateful to the slender, black-haired man. Friday was the sort who would have seen to the task herself and, in doing so, completely mortified him. The man extended his arm and helped Tristan to his feet with surprising strength.
“I’m Velius,” he said. Tristan nodded and began to release Velius’s arm, but the man held tight. “Give it a moment. I expect your balance isn’t quite what it used to be.”
He was right, of course. The moment Tristan stood up fully, he almost toppled backwards from the weight of the wings. Good Lords of the Wind, were they waterlogged? They weren’t going to be this heavy all the time, were they? He tried to shift them forward and alter his center of gravity; he succeeded only in swatting both the king and Friday’s father in the face.
Fantastic.
There was an ever-growing crowd gathered around him on the shore. Behind the contingent of Woodcutters and their royal majesties now stood his brothers, and behind them, half of Arilland. No one spoke above the cry of the gulls and the bark of that dog. That pesky, wonderful dog.
Tristan looked at Friday, Friday’s father, Rumbold. He wasn’t sure what to say. He was beginning to feel like an attraction at the local market fair.
Velius plac
ed an incredibly warm hand on Tristan’s shoulder, and the pain between his shoulder blades eased a bit. Rumbold was a smart ruler indeed to have a healer in his retinue. “We should get you inside,” he said. “I’d like to see for myself that you and your brothers are all right. We’ll see if we can’t scrounge up some suitable clothes for you. And then—”
“We should have a ball!” This suggestion came from the delicate young woman who had slipped in between Friday’s two brothers. Judging by her optimism, her pixielike face, and the curve of her lips, this could only be Friday’s little sister the queen.
Queen Sunday nodded slowly, as if taking her own idea into consideration. “Yes. We should definitely have a ball. Tonight is too soon . . . we’ll say tomorrow. Arilland needs something to celebrate, and there’s nothing this country loves more than a ball. Also, you need a distraction, or you’ll never get off this beach.” Sunday winked at Tristan before turning to announce her intentions to the expectant crowd.
“My wife comes from clever stock.” Rumbold’s expression quickly shifted from joviality to sincerity, the mark of a true leader. A move that would have made Tristan’s father proud. “You must take it slowly,” said the king. “I am all too familiar with what you’re going through right now. Not that long ago, I was in your place.”
“You had wings the size of a small ship?”
Rumbold didn’t miss a beat. “No. But every now and again I have an incredible craving for flies.”
Tristan laughed at the comment, and was pleased to see smiles wash over the people around him. His new wings may have been unbearable and socially unacceptable, but his heart held hope.
“Come,” said Rumbold. “Velius and I will escort you and your family to the guards’ training ground. The palace is chock-full of faces—you’ll not find any solace there. The practice yard has facilities large enough to see to your needs, and we can more easily assure your privacy.”
“I’ll come with you.” Friday’s words almost startled Tristan. Until then, it had not occurred to him that they might be separated at all—but Monday stepped forward to intervene.
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