The Flight of Swans

by Sarah McGuire

  I looked down, saw the patch of light cast by the window, and stepped slowly into it, trying to smooth my hair into something that would remind him of the daughter he’d banished so long ago.

  He stepped closer, unable to look away. “She said I was being foolish, my wife, but I don’t think I am. It’s just that sometimes, I can’t think clearly and she feels she must make sure I’m not taken advantage of.” He smiled. “There are so many who would abuse their favor with the king, you know.”

  I nodded. Yes, I know.

  Another step closer, and I lowered my gaze, afraid even that would frighten him.

  “Perhaps it is that you remind me of someone,” he said.

  I smiled then, to keep from crying.

  “There!” he exclaimed. “There it is! Your smile. It reminds me of my first wife, my first love . . .”

  He remembered Mother?

  He shook his head. “It was very long ago, but she smiled like you. Perhaps that is what I saw earlier.”

  He looked around the dark cell, noticing it for the first time. “What have you done, child, that she sent you here? She is merciful. I know this from my own life, how she saved me from, from—”

  Your sons and daughter? Your throne? Your sanity?

  He shook his head, as if trying to remember. “No matter.”

  I looked down at the untouched muck illuminated in a square of light, the previous day’s drawing hidden in shadow. I thought of sunlight streaming through the library windows so many summers ago. I thought of the sound of Father’s voice as he read to me from The Annals of Lacharra.

  And for a moment, I smelled cloves.

  There are spaces between heartbeats and breaths. Between the smallest moments of time. Sometimes, you can step into those spaces and live there for a little while.

  Just long enough.

  I touched Father’s shoulder so that he would pay attention and slowly knelt beside the patch of light.

  I remembered the scent of cloves and the scent of books and the way the east wind made the library fireplace smell of smoke in the winter. I thought of the Cynwrig crest above the alcove where Father read.

  And in the muck on the floor of the cell, I drew three swans, wings unfurled.

  I drew the broken chains around their necks.

  I drew the flight of swans as if they’d spring up from the muck and find freedom once again.

  Father crouched to see the swans better and reached a finger toward them. Then he whispered:

  And so, a game of swans, bearing swords, flew up from the south.

  The House of Cynwrig settled among the lakes of the north and all the lands in between, establishing their fortress at Roden.

  Every prayer I’d ever drawn or sent out into the night was answered as Father recited from The Annals of Lacharra.

  “It’s from a very old book, you see. A favorite of mine, though I’d forgotten that too,” he murmured. “Perhaps you wouldn’t have liked it, but—”

  He looked up at me—and what I saw filled the empty spaces between years of heartbreak.

  “Andaryn?”

  If I could only talk to Father about home and the library and Lacharra, the enchantment would fall from him—but I couldn’t answer him!

  So I nodded and smiled up at him.

  “You have your mother’s smile.”

  I nodded again, then glanced behind him to the open cell door. I wanted to dash from this place with Father, but I knew I’d lose him if he met the Queen again. He was returning, but not fully. He still didn’t seem to notice that I was mute.

  So I pointed to the swans, asking him to tell me more.

  And he did.

  He told me how the Cynwrig brothers fled, but the King of Brisson followed, determined to kill the entire house for denying him their sister. His voice grew strong, and I was in the castle library again, the scent of books and cloves more real than the dark and slime that surrounded me.

  The flight of swans, bearing swords, met the King of Brisson and his allies in combat.

  And all the while, I watched Father’s face as he slowly returned. His hair was as dark as it had ever been. I’d expected the lines around his eyes and mouth to be deeper, but he looked younger than I remembered. It reminded me of the Queen, as if somehow his soul had aged rather than his body. But I pushed the fear aside and held my father’s gaze as he spoke on.

  Father’s voice grew stronger as the patch of daylight grew brighter. I watched him and the door behind him as hope rose inside me—until Father’s voice faltered.

  I glanced at the partially opened door behind him, expecting to see the Queen or one of her Hunters behind him, but there was no one. But Father wasn’t looking out the door. He stared at me.

  “What’s happened to you, Andaryn? Why are you here? Why can’t you speak?”

  Father looked around at the cell, truly seeing it for the first time.

  Seeing me for the first time.

  He raised a hand to his face. “What’s happened to me?”

  I wanted to hug him but didn’t dare—I was covered in filth. But he caught me up anyway and pressed me close.

  It was better than sunlight. Better than speech.

  “I haven’t been myself these past few weeks,” he whispered against my hair, just as he used to when I was a girl. Then he released me and studied my face, slowly shaking his head. “No. Not weeks. It’s been years, hasn’t it? How many years has it been?”

  I held up six fingers, and his face crumpled in shame and disgust. But he mastered it quickly. “Now is not the time to grieve it. It is time for me to make it right. And I will, Rynni. I—”

  The door screeched behind him.

  The sound of a hiss.

  Father gasped and a moment later, the tip of an obsidian blade protruded from his chest.

  Father’s eyes widened, and his hands lifted to the sword as if touching it would make it go away. I saw the Hunter behind Father, eyes wide with bloodlust, and caught Father by the shoulders.

  The Hunter yanked his blade from Father, and all that was left was blood.

  Father fell back into the cell and tried to pull himself up on one of his elbows. The Hunter stood in the doorway, the evil blade still in his hand. I launched myself at him, clawing and kicking. He stumbled back, flung the blade to the floor, and fled.

  The blade shattered, sending sparks into the dim.

  I knelt beside Father. Blood already covered his tunic.

  So much blood.

  I put my hands over the gash in his chest, wishing I could push the life back into him. But still it spilled out, a warm pool spreading beneath him.

  All the while, Father looked up at me, his breath catching and burbling in the back of his throat.

  I wanted to wail. I wanted to scream.

  But his hand came up and caught mine as he tried to speak.

  I leaned closer.

  “—love you.”

  I felt the life streaming from him, saw the lines the years had cut into his face, and I couldn’t stop crying, great silent sobs, and tears so thick I could hardly see him.

  Then I felt his hand on my cheek, and I cupped his hand with my own.

  “You . . .” Father’s breath rattled in his chest. “. . . will finish what . . . could not. Don’t—” He closed his eyes, and I thought I’d lost him. “. . . give her any—thing. Don’t . . . say . . . yes.”

  I kept nodding against his hand just to keep him close, keep him with me.

  “Andaryn.”

  The last word my father spoke to me was my name.

  Chapter 61

  My whole body shook as if my sobs had settled in my bones.

  I wanted to lie down beside Father and wait for the Hunters to kill me too. I wanted to close my eyes and believe that when I opened them again, I’d see sunlight and smell cloves.

  I wanted the past six years to be only the nightmare I woke from.

  But there were my brothers. And Carrick. And Ionwyn.

&n
bsp; I couldn’t die. Not before the six years were over.

  I wiped my eyes and picked up the shattered obsidian sword, my hands slipping on the blood-slicked hilt. There was enough blade left to cut someone, enough weapon to help me fight my way out.

  I lived between moments one last time, every detail knife-sharp and shining: the one spot of blood I couldn’t wipe from the blade handle, the strands of gray in Father’s beard as I bent to kiss his forehead, the way the stone wall bit into my palm as I pulled myself to standing.

  I pulled in a breath once, twice, while time stood still around me.

  It was time to find my brothers.

  I’d walked ten strides when I heard shouts from rough throats—Hunters.

  But they weren’t hunting me. They were raising an alarm. “Murder! Assassin!”

  And then time flowed too fast, seconds streaming past like water pouring over a cliff, beating me senseless beneath it. I tried to run, but I was too slow.

  The Ri’s warriors found me. They saw my open cell door and my father lying dead over the threshold. They saw his blood on my skirt and smeared on my hands.

  I tried to fight, but the Hunters and the Ri’s warriors were too strong, and I was still shaking.

  And still time poured on, and above it all rang the Queen’s wails: the piercing keening of a woman whose heart could never break.

  I was thrown back into my cell. I trembled so much, I could hardly move. I slid down the wall, felt the rough stone of the wall dig into my shoulder blades.

  Father was dead . . . Father was dead . . . Father was dead . . .

  My brothers were scattered.

  And the Ri had not come.

  I was alone.

  Chapter 62

  Two Hunters pulled me from the cell as the light was fading. I was taken back to the small room, where the Queen waited for me.

  I looked for any sign of Ionwyn or Carrick.

  “She is a small thing,” said the Queen, “but she stands too tall for my taste.”

  I hadn’t eaten for nearly two days and could hardly stand. Grief had numbed me. But at the Queen’s words, something sprang to life inside me: I was also the princess of Lacharra. I would not dishonor my dead father.

  I straightened as if I wore a crown.

  “Make her kneel,” commanded the Queen.

  One of the Hunters swept a foot against the back of my knees, and I dropped to the floor. Hands fell on my shoulders and pressed me there.

  I couldn’t rise, but I did not bow my head.

  “The chiefs of Fianna know that you killed the king of Lacharra: an act of war against a peaceful kingdom. I could demand your death as payment.”

  Did she want me to beg? To speak?

  She couldn’t kill me until the six years were over. As long as Ionwyn and Carrick were safe, the Queen couldn’t make me do anything.

  I would not speak and kill my brothers.

  “You must think I want you to break your vow, Andaryn,” said the Queen. “But I am not so cruel as to ask that of you! I have a simple request: I ask one more year of silence.”

  The unexpectedness of it was more confusing than a threat.

  “Ah. You’ve misunderstood me, poor child. I’ve not brought you here to hurt you. I ask so little. So very little. You see that now, don’t you?”

  Her voice was so sweet, so gentle that I wanted to beg her forgiveness for doubting her.

  Look at her!

  I looked once more, saw her pale face that was too young and too smooth for such old eyes. My senses returned, and I remembered what Father had said: Don’t say yes. So I filled my mind with my own words, the things I would say the moment I could speak.

  “Will you give me one more year of silence, Andaryn?”

  No.

  I knew somehow that words were important to the Queen. I’d given her my speech once. I would not do that again. She couldn’t compel me.

  The Queen held out her gloved hand—why was it gloved?—and one of the Hunters beside her put something in it.

  My satchel.

  It couldn’t be. Ionwyn wouldn’t have dropped it, unless . . . had they captured her too?

  “You don’t think it is yours?” The Queen stepped into the light. And I saw that it was mine. “Ah. Now you recognize it.”

  She opened it and tugged out Cadan’s nettle tunic. Hadn’t I sewn the picture of the swans onto it?

  NO!

  I lunged at her to take it back, but the Hunters made me kneel, their hands digging into my shoulders.

  How had she gotten the tunics? What had happened to Ionwyn and Carrick? My brothers?

  Where was the Ri?

  The Queen laughed. “Perhaps now you will reconsider my offer. I ask for your silence—a year, only a year!—for these tunics.”

  Tonight was the full moon. My brothers would become swans again without the tunics. There’d be no one to challenge the Queen.

  Don’t say yes.

  There would be no one to challenge her—except me.

  I shook my head.

  “Choose wisely, sweet Andaryn.” Anger edged her voice. “I will burn them.”

  She reached a gloved hand to me until her finger touched my head. I resisted, but she pushed my head down until I bowed my head, my entire body bent so that the hidden spindle dug into my side.

  “You stand accused of the murder of the king of Lacharra. I could demand your blood. And I will.” She leaned close, whispering. “It will be just like this tomorrow: you kneeling, head bowed. Except there will be a Hunter with a sword. And when the sun rises tomorrow and your vow of silence is completed, he will take your head.”

  I tried to look up, but I couldn’t. There was an Otherworldly strength about her. Fear filled me, as if she was pouring it into my skull.

  “You will not speak the day your vow is fulfilled, Andaryn. You will remain silent, either by choice”—she chuckled—“or by death.”

  Why had I believed that I could meet her, strength for strength, and not endanger those I loved?

  I stopped struggling, and she lifted her finger from my head. When I looked up, I saw the satchel of tunics in her hand.

  Those I loved would suffer anyway.

  I would not give her what she wanted. It was Father’s request, and I half-believed that if I refused, her power might be broken. I might see it shatter, here in this room, if I denied her what she most wanted.

  And for a moment, I thought she would shatter. Her fine voice cracked, as if she were given only so many words and was running out. “Will you promise me a year of silence, Andaryn? I would not be so cruel as to demand that you speak your answer. A nod will suffice.”

  I shook my head.

  The Queen did not shatter. And she did not falter.

  She motioned to one of the Hunters, who plucked a torch from the wall and held it at waist level. With one motion, the Queen held my satchel over the torch. The sleeve of Cadan’s tunic—still dangling out of the satchel—caught fire first.

  I fought the Hunters, but they held me back, no matter how I struggled. And as my satchel burned, they dragged me back to my cell.

  Chapter 63

  Seventy-fifth and final full moon

  Even in my cell, the stench of the nettle-smoke stung my nostrils and clung to my clothes.

  She’d burned them. Six years of work turned to ash just hours before my brothers needed it.

  The Queen had to be stopped.

  My brothers would wish it, as long as Carrick was safe—and I had to believe that he was. She would’ve murdered him in front of my eyes if she thought I’d give her what she wanted.

  For some reason, she wanted my silence.

  It was time to speak, then. In what little time I had left between sunrise and my death.

  But I would not just let her have me—or them.

  I pulled the spindle from my bodice, studying it in the moonlight that filtered into the cell. It would never spin nettle fiber again after I’d wrenched the whorl o
ff it. I gripped it, wondering if I had the courage or the strength to stab her with it. But I could hear Cadan’s laugh in my head. You’ll have to do better than that!

  I looked back down at the spindle, with the small swell of nettle yarn wrapped around it. Hadn’t she worn gloves just to touch the tunics?

  The nettle yarn was such a small thing compared to the tunics, but I’d use it.

  I sat in the corner, cross-legged so I could rest the yarn in my lap. I set a loop in the yarn, put it on the thumb of my left hand, and continued to twist and knot.

  I made three arms’ length of cord before I unwound the last swath of yarn. It was the first time the spindle had been empty of yarn. Such a plain piece of wood!

  For a moment, I imagined breaking free of my captors and binding the Queen with the cord, but that was as unlikely as stabbing her with the spindle. The spindle itself could have no power. I ran my fingers over it.

  The old woman had carved something into the spindle. Poor, mad woman! A spindle should be smooth, with no rough edges that might catch the yarn.

  She’d not even bothered to sand down what she’d engraved.

  You can’t have those years back. You can’t speak the word that I should have said. But have the tunics ready.

  She couldn’t have meant there was actually a word that could be spoken that would stop the Queen.

  What had she engraved?

  I wrapped the cord I’d braided around my hand and scrambled to my feet. I took the spindle to the window and read the word in the dim light.

  diladh

  It looked like the old tongue, the one Declan claimed was spoken when people still moved freely between here and the Otherworld.

  I stared at the word, wishing I knew its meaning.

  But I could read it. I could speak it, if I was given time.

  Tanwen had dreamed that a word would send the Hunters back to the Otherworld. And whatever she had spoken had been enough to do just that. But they’d been pulled here by the Queen’s call.

  What could a word do against the Queen? She hadn’t been called to this world—she was already part of it. The old woman had given her many things, true, but she hadn’t called the Queen here.