Frain had left the great hall. After a few minutes we found him prowling catlike down one of the corridors. “Tirell, you coward, where are you?” he asked the night. The tone was full of threat. The sword was raised.
“I have to disarm him,” Trevyn said. “Dair, go get me one of the wooden practice swords from the barracks.”
He’ll slice it right off, I protested.
“I think not. That sword is old, dull of edge. A wooden sword will do.”
I brought it as quickly as I was able. Even so, Frain had stalked through a quarter of the castle by the time I got back, with Trevyn never far from his side, warning the guards out of his way. Frain had come out to a platform when I found them. Trevyn and a cluster of guards whispered nearby. Frain stood, no longer the coolheaded hunter, his anger pulsing hot, blood heat.
“Tirell!” He shouted the challenge, it rang from the stone walls. He had forgotten Fabron, it seemed.
Trevyn took the wooden sword from me and stepped forward to meet him. At the first touch of the mock blade to his own, Frain lunged forward, filled with lust to kill.
“Mothers!” Trevyn exclaimed, but it was not Frain’s passion that surprised him. Frain was a master swordsman.
He was splendid, deadly. Even I could see that. The guards gasped, watching him. Trevyn was skillful, he had been well trained, but weapons had never been his main love. Dreaming had, and peace. There was no room for dreaming in that night.
“What am I to do with him?” Trevyn wondered aloud, breathing hard.
He had two good hands, and Frain had only one. Trevyn was trying to engage Frain’s sword with his wooden one while he used his other hand to wrench it away. But it was all he could do to parry Frain’s blows, far less get hold of that hilt. Frain was lightning fast, brilliant, murderous. Trevyn could not stand his ground. He gave way, circling back, feeling for advantage.
“Coward,” Frain taunted.
Hardly a coward, who faced him with a mock weapon. The guards eyed each other, wondering if they could help Trevyn without breach of honor, without hurting his pride.
“Surround him, you fellows,” Trevyn panted, forgetting pride for the time.
The guards moved to obey. But before they reached Frain the wooden sword broke with a horrible snap. I shouted with fear—Frain’s sword flashed straight for Trevyn’s head! He fell. But as the guards lunged forward a movement of his hand stopped them. And Frain stood still and lowered his long sword, breathed one last curse and walked away.
Trevyn waited until he was well down the corridor before he got up.
I thought you were as good as dead! I told him, shaking. There was a welt on his head. He smiled at me.
“Praise be, I caught the flat of it. And Frain is satisfied with his revenge. At least I hope he is.”
He was. He went back to his bed and fell sound asleep. Some time later we slipped in and stole the sword away from him to take it back where it belonged. Trevyn went to see him first thing the next morning.
“What happened to you?” Frain demanded, staring. There was a bright red mark across the left side of Trevyn’s forehead.
“I lost a bout to a better,” Trevyn said wryly. “How are you? Did you sleep well?”
“I—no. Please, my lord, no more draughts. I slept, but I had the most—terrible dream.”
“No more draughts,” Trevyn agreed readily, seating himself. “What was the dream?”
“I—” Frain looked down, uncomfortable. “I was—quarreling with my brother.”
“Oh?” said Trevyn, prodding for better truth. Quarreling was hardly the word.
“Really, my lord, it was nothing, it was of no significance. Dreams are unaccountable things.” Frain looked quite pained. Trevyn had mercy on him, or a partial mercy.
“This brother of yours—you say he is a True King, and yet he ravished your beloved, crippled you—”
“He was not himself,” Frain said hotly. “If you knew what he had gone through—” He would have sprung to sword for Tirell’s sake, I felt sure of it. How odd! He who had been ready to kill him a few hours before—
“The suffering comes before the kingship,” Trevyn remarked.
“Yes.” Frain gave Trevyn a wondering glance, all his heat cooled. “Yes, my lord, you know, you understand. I—remember how he wept after he had wounded me. Then I fainted, and by the time I awoke he had come back from madness, he was better, truly better, warm and whole as I had not known him to be since—since it had started. He was the brother I had always loved. He took my hand and met my eyes with love and sorrow, and the land itself hailed him, and all the people were rejoicing because the blessing of the goddess was on him—”
“So how could you be so petty as to sulk about a little thing like an arm?” Trevyn put in dryly.
“An arm and a true love.” Frain tried to match Trevyn’s tone and his smile, but could not. “I went away,” he added.
“To find Ogygia and lay your case before the goddess.”
“No, that came later. First I went to the lake to find Shamarra. But everything had changed. The swan had gone black and was as crippled as I, and the water itself was fearsome. When I looked in I saw—never mind.” His eyes shifted and he hastened on. “There was a woman there, a sort of queenly goddess, and she told me that the wrath of Adalis was on Shamarra because of her overweening. She had been transformed into a night bird and sent to wander the wind.”
Trevyn looked both startled and intense. “What did you say is the name of your goddess?”
“There are many names. Every woman’s name is a name of the goddess. There is Eala the swan and the white horse Epona, and Morrghu the raven of war, and Vieyra the hell hag, and Suevi, Rae, Mela—dozens of others. But the mother of Vale is Adalis.”
“I thought you said that. I heard, but I could not believe my ears.” Trevyn put a palm to his hurt brow with a sigh. “Frain, if you can say that most holy name so offhandedly without the castle stones flying from their places and raining destruction on your head, truly you must be of immortal kind.”
“Really?” Frain said that softly, but his excitement grew as he talked, he leaned forward and his voice rose. “You mean you call her by that same name, and she is here, she can respond to you? Do you really mean that?”
“She is here as much as anywhere,” Trevyn said with some small wonder, for the goddess makes every land her own.
“Why, then,” Frain breathed, “this must be Ogygia after all.”
“Perhaps. If you say so. I am surprised that it has taken you so long to find it.”
“Have you ever tried to find a legendary land?” Frain asked, a hint of vexation in his steady voice. “I never knew there were so many lands that lay beyond Vale. I trudged across them, places and places of them, and no one had ever heard of Ogygia, all they could do was point me toward this one and that one who might know, and I asked them all to no avail. Follow the setting sun, they said, and find the ocean. And when I found it at last, I walked the length of that vast shoreline looking for Ogygia or news of Ogygia: And I had never seen an immensity like that of the sea.” Frain’s voice was tinged with awe and terror. “I knew when I saw it that it was as the woman by the lake had said, that I could no sooner reach Ogygia than the crippled swan. But I had to try.”
Trevyn sighed in vexation of his own. He had indeed been to legendary lands, and he badly wanted to explain to Frain the ways of the All-Mother. But he knew that Frain had to find her on his own.
“There is an island far, far west of here,” he said finally, “where the elves have made their home, the ancient folk. There I spoke with the goddess once on her mountain of the moon. The name of that island is Elwestrand. Wild swans fly there. But you cannot go there unless she sends one of her swimming ships for you.”
Frain’s face sagged. “Why, it sounds as if I must go there nevertheless,” he whispered.
“I think not. But we will speak to her soon and see what she has to say to you.”
&n
bsp; “Where? How?” Frain rose to his feet in his excitement, and Trevyn could not help smiling.
“As soon as the weather has broken and you are strong. In a suitable place. Patience!”
Buy The Golden Swan Now!
About the Author
Nancy Springer has passed the fifty-book milestone with novels for adults, young adults, and children, in genres including mythic fantasy, contemporary fiction, magic realism, horror, and mystery—although she did not realize she wrote mystery until she won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America two years in succession. Born in Montclair, New Jersey, Springer moved with her family to Gettysburg, of Civil War fame, when she was thirteen. She spent the next forty-six years in Pennsylvania, raising two children (Jonathan and Nora), writing, horseback riding, fishing, and bird-watching. In 2007 she surprised her friends and herself by moving with her second husband to an isolated area of the Florida Panhandle where the bird-watching is spectacular, and where, when fishing, she occasionally catches an alligator.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1982 by Nancy Springer
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-4976-1288-4
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The Black Beast Page 23