"My father ordered my presence; heaven only knows what for," Dorian grumbled. "I'll tell you what I'm afraid of—I think he's been bride hunting for me, and I'm about to be chained down to a homely sack of turnips with a face like a sow whose only virtue is a father with equally fat lands."
"Oh, well—but if her dowry is rich enough, all you have to do is get her with child and then take your pleasure elsewhere," Benno replied cheerfully, his bright blue eyes sparkling. "Plenty of girls about—fat lands means pretty serf girls, for one thing, and there's not a few lonely ladies need a generous fellow's company. As for the bride herself, put out the candle, have her women douse her with scent, and it won't matter what she looks like. Get her with child once a year, and she won't have anything to complain of."
Siegfried frowned; that was no way to talk about a highborn maiden, even if she did have a face like a sow. He hoped the maids watching them hadn't overheard, and changed the subject back to the hunt. "We're looking for a new hunting ground; we've hunted so much around the palace that we need to let the game come back. Are you sure you can't get away to come with us?"
"Absolutely certain; Father was—insistent." Dorian had lost his anger with Siegfried in his annoyance with his father. "But there will be tomorrow, I hope?"
"And the next day and the next, until we find someplace with decent game." It was Siegfried's turn to slap Dorian companion- ably on the back; Dorian stood firm against a friendly blow that would have flattened a lesser man, and his stock rose a bit in Siegfried's estimation.
Dorian went off to disarm. Siegfried stripped his own armor off and left it to his squires to gather up. The maidens drifted off to the gardens when it became plain that the prince had no intention of seeking out their companionship or providing further amusement with another bout. Siegfried signaled to a servant in royal livery waiting against the wall for his orders.
"Fetch us some bread and cheese and a couple of wine flasks from the kitchen and bring them to the stable," he told the man, and turned to his friend. Benno was a little shorter than Siegfried, darker, and considerably lighter; what cemented their friendship was a common interest in learning, not fighting. With Siegfried's tutor, they often discussed Greek philosophy or Latin literature far into the night. "I'm not of a mind to get pulled into my mother's toils this afternoon. What say you to going straight to the stable and riding off before anyone knows what we're about?"
"I'd say that's a good plan," Benno agreed readily, as he would agree with almost anything Siegfried suggested by way of amusement. "Will you ride your black today or the bay?"
"The bay, I think; he's the better jumper." Siegfried was looking forward to a good, challenging ride over rough ground; for some reason, he'd been suffering from a growing discontent since late spring, and he couldn't seem to shake the feeling except when he was doing something active. Music made him melancholy, he was dissatisfied with his own attempts at poetry, and the books he used to love left him feeling stale and flat. He wanted something, but he didn't know what it was.
A good war, maybe, is what I need; a fight worthy of a man. Not that I'm likely to get one. No evil sorcerers about, and no one threatening to lay siege to us. Much as he loved his mother, there was no denying the fact that her court was that of a woman— slow, sleepy, and dull. Peace was all very well for old men and females, but a young man needed something to get his blood stirred up.
He and Benno strolled across the yard to the stable, leaving his squires still picking up his arms and armor for cleaning. His shirt stuck to his back, and he couldn't wait to be mounted and out of the still air within the castle grounds. There was no breeze to cool him here in the courtyard, and he ran his hand through his sweat-matted hair to get it out of his face as he entered the shadows of the stable, A groom hurried to meet them, but Siegfried passed him by, too eager to wait for his beast to be brought to him.
Benno ordered his dun hunter saddled; Siegfried himself saw to the harnessing of his bay, throwing blanket and saddle over the strong back, then tightening the girth as a stable boy got the bridle onto the beast's head and the bit into his teeth, Siegfried took over fastening the throat and cheek straps, then led the bay out into the sunlight. The horse was calm, but fresh and eager to be out of the stable; good omens for a fine ride. He mounted up and checked the stirrups and seat of the saddle as Benno's horse was brought, and as his friend took his own seat, the servant arrived with their provisions. They each took a flask and a packet of bread and cheese and stowed them in their saddlebags, and Benno's squire brought their bows and quivers. As he waited for Benno to arrange his weapons to his liking, he felt that stale, flat feeling come over him again.
What is wrong with me? Why does nothing satisfy me anymore?
A minute later, Siegfried looked up at the blue sky above the castle towers, and felt his heart lift a little at the prospect of an afternoon of freedom. He spurred his horse forward and trotted out into the forest, Benno a pace behind. If a gallop through wild woods couldn't cure him, at least for an afternoon he could forget his discontent.
Chapter Three
Now that the new one—Katerina was her name, apparently— had resigned herself to her situation and had joined the activities of the flock, Odile could go back to her own concerns, relying entirely on the Silent Ones to oversee the swan-maidens. The Silent Ones had always served as spies on the maidens when von Rothbart didn't need them; they were perfect for the task, after all. Although they could not interfere effectively if something were to go wrong, and could not report what they observed to her (although they could communicate with von Rothbart directly), they could get her attention when something was wrong. With her father gone nearly every night, the Silent Ones had no need to hover over him, waiting on his whims. Odile left half of them on watch with the maidens, and now had the time she wanted to concentrate on her own magical studies.
She perfected her own transformation spell until it was a marvel of swift efficiency, but she had no intention of showing it to von Rothbart a second time. She was tired of rebuffs when she expected praise; there must be something she could do to change the situation. For the past few days, she had devoured book after book in the library, sitting next to an open window overlooking the gardens in order to enjoy the summer evenings while she sought for a new direction in her work. She had to have something to show her father, for he kept up a steady inquiry into the progress of her studies. That inquiry would become painfully embarrassing soon; traces of sardonic amusement already showed in his voice. Her problem was that she couldn't think of any course of study that would please him.
Finally, she tried a different approach to the problem. She cleaned off a wax tablet and sat in her favorite seat with it in her lap and a stylus in her hand, a single lamp burning above her head. She divided the tablet in half with a line scribed in the wax; on the right, she inscribed a word or symbol that stood for a spell she had mastered that had brought forth a word of praise, while on the left, similar signs for spells that had brought indifference, or worse, veiled disapproval.
When both sides of the tablet were full—though the list of spells was by no means the complete tally of everything she had learned—she leaned her chin on her hand and studied the result.
One pattern emerged quickly. Whenever she mastered a type of magic that von Rothbart used, her presentation invariably got a cool reception. In fact, the more powerful the spell, the likelier it was that he would have that reaction.
Ah. But how odd. It puzzled her; it would have been more logical for him to praise her for emulating him, wouldn't it? Didn't he want his daughter to follow in his metaphorical footsteps? This discovery only added to her puzzlement, for although she had a pattern, there was no obvious reason why he felt this way.
Surely he doesn't think I'm setting up as a rival to him—does he? That's ridiculous. . . .
She rubbed the tablet clean and began another list, concentrating on the accomplishments that he had expressed approval of. On the ri
ght, the list reflected mild approval, on the left, an actual moment of praise. These lists were much shorter, and there was blank wax beneath both lists; it dismayed her to realize how little she had mastered that had called forth any enthusiasm at all from her father.
Not only am I doing something wrong, but I have been doing it for a very long time, it seems. She compressed her lips tightly, and her eyes stung for a moment. Can't he see how much I am trying to please him? Isn't the effort worth something?
Perhaps he didn't realize how much effort she expended on this; after all, he was the one who insisted that she maintain absolute control over her expression and body-language, that she cultivate a mask of cool indifference at all times. She must never show that anything moved her, that anything surprised or angered her. "The more effort something requires," he had lectured her, "the less you should display. Assume that everyone who might watch you is an enemy. You do not show an enemy your weaknesses. Make everything appear as natural as breathing, and that alone will confuse, even frighten, a foe."
She had not been a total failure—for she had actually garnered praise from him from time to time. I've done a few things right, at any rate. All I have to do is discover what they all have in common.
But she felt even more dismay when she realized what this pattern was—a dismay tinged by anger, an anger that grew with every moment that passed. For the only sorts of magic von Rothbart seemed to approve of were—well, the only word to describe them was domestic. When she had learned how to banish the mice and insects from the pantry, for instance.
Or here, the time that he complained about seeing the Silent Ones wielding brooms, and I concocted a way to keep the floors spotlessly clean without needing to sweep.
Kitchen magic! The dismay lessened, the anger and sense of insult grew. Was that all she was good for in his eyes? To conjure glorified housekeeping? Her fingers curled into fists; the stylus broke with a sudden snap, and her nails cut into her palms, making her wince with the sudden pain.
She uncurled her fists and stared at the four little red crescents in each palm. It was the pain that brought her back to her senses, made her reestablish her control. Anger would win her nothing but von Rothbart's contempt, and she already had her fill of that. It was only foolish, childish, womanish creatures like the flock who gave in to their tempers, or worse, let their emotions dictate their actions.
After the anger came resolution. I don't care what Father thinks. I am going to master everything he has. Perhaps it was foolish, but—
No! There is nothing foolish about it!
Resolution gave way to thought as she worked her way out of emotion and into a state of calmness. She should not jump to any conclusions; that was the first thing. She should think things through and not assume insult; this was her father, not some stranger. There might be a reason why he was so reluctant to praise her for mastering his magics. He might wish her to save herself, her energies—after all, she herself had noticed how exhausted she was by her efforts. How was he to know that she didn't care how much it took from her to manage the greater spells? He might believe she was too young yet, too vulnerable— but at the same time didn't want to forbid her to try. After all, she was supposed to be achieving, learning. If he didn't encourage her, but didn't discourage her either, that might be the way to keep her from trying too much, too soon.
And why shouldn't he approve of the—the domestic magics? They make his life easier, and more pleasant.
The last of her anger faded; how foolish she had been! She was very glad now that he hadn't been here to see her lose control of herself so badly. And this is exactly why he wants me to keep my emotions controlled—look what silly ideas, what Hawed reasoning they led me into! After all, von Rothbart was probably thinking like a father, not a master sorcerer—he only wanted to protect her, forgetting that she was fast becoming an adult, and in no need of protection.
So here was her answer; she would avoid his disapproval easily enough from now on, I will still work to master his spells, but I simply won't show them to him. What I will show him is more of what he approves of. "Kitchen magic" was hardly difficult; in fact, the reason she'd stopped doing it was because it offered so little challenge.
At some point when he needs the help, I will do just that— help him, without making any fuss. He '11 realize that I am his equal, and he can count on my help from then on. Then, oh then, he would surely open his tower and his own workroom to her, and together they would devise new enchantments, create new spells! He would open to her the secret of where his power came from, so that their strength would be doubled, and she truly would become his equal.
As for what her first little touch of domesticity should be— Clean something, I think. Clean something impressive.
She immediately thought of the dim and dusty hangings in the Great Hall; the floors were clean, but one could scarcely make out the figures of the tapestries for all the centuries of soot and grime. Since the tapestries had always been filthy and there had never been any attempt to get the Silent Ones to clean them, she herself had overlooked their state. Probably her father had, too; they must have been new in his great-great grandfather's time, if then.
It ought to be easy enough to work out a way to send the dirt elsewhere without damaging the fabric. If the colors proved to be faded, she would conjure up the old brightness.
She smiled, pleased with herself. She needn't even say anything to him; that was the best part of the plan. He'd see for himself what she'd done the moment he entered the manor.
As for the next of his magics for her to master—she picked a direction almost at random, full of relief that she had a course of action at last. I have the transformation spell; I should work out the binding spell, too, and a counter for it Newly energized by her plans, she wiped the tablet clean and put it aside, the broken stylus with it. It occurred to her, as she entered the Great Hall and looked up at the tapestries, that there would be other applications of magic to clean fabrics. She could set the spell on every fabric in the manor; curtains would no longer collect dust and cobwebs, bed linens and blankets would stay fresh, clothing would not need laundering—
Practical and pleasurable for me, too, she thought with amusement. And it will further free the Silent Ones for other tasks, which will please Father even more. Well, it isn't a fact yet, and it won't be unless I can work it out.
The trick, of course, was to remove every bit of dirt without removing other things—the nap of the velvet, for instance, or jewels and bits of gold thread. Not the Law of Similarity, then. She nibbled her lower lip as she paced the perimeter of the room, staring up at the tapestries and the banners above them. I may have to clean each element in the tapestries separately. That would complicate her work, but it might be the surest and safest road to success. Let me see; there's an easy spell to take the tarnish off metals—I can find out what it does to the gilt threads up there. . . .
She chose an insignificant corner of one of the least important hangings, and carefully insinuated her spell into the weave of the tapestry, observing the effect, and calculating changes.
With a little more experimentation, she felt confident enough of her results to bind the three spells she'd chosen together, and set them loose on the walls. By this time, she'd gathered a crowd of Silent Ones, for magic attracted them. She felt their interest as a force of its own. A glowing mist, rather than dancing colored motes, enveloped the tapestries in a rosy haze. It was quite pretty, as if dawn-tinged clouds had invaded the hall to dance up and down the tapestries.
She'd reckoned that it was better to be sure than swift, so the spells worked slowly and there was no perceptible change at first, except for a growing pile of soft dust mixed with soot in the center of the floor. No more than a smudge at first, then a slight hummock, then a real pile—as the filth was removed from the tapestries, it had to go somewhere, and she had decided to make a pile of it and sweep it out of the way as soon as the tapestries were clean. Besides, she was c
urious to see just how much dirt had accumulated up there over the years. It was the sort of thing that gave an otherwise dull task a touch of pride and accomplishment.
Slowly, layer by layer, the hangings showed their true colors, and all the details of their weavings. The sheer amount of detail startled her when she realized how much there was—what she had taken for plain, dark backgrounds proved to be intricate landscapes straight out of a nightmare; sinister caverns with shadowed shapes lurking behind rock formations, and haunted forests peopled by half-animated trees with tortured limbs. The glint of very tiny gems gave an uncanny spark to eyes, catching the light unexpectedly and in startling ways. Not exactly the most pleasant of subjects, but very effective. The use of jewels and gilded threads was particularly effective, giving quite a lifelike character to the background figures as well as the mythical beasts of the foreground.
There were one or two faded places where the sun struck fragile colors, but invoking the Law of Similarity put those right, and eventually she was able to stand back and admire her handiwork with pardonable pride. The hangings were quite splendid, all in all—though the swan-maidens would probably find them terrifying. She supposed that was the intended effect; the idea of holding court here was to impress your underlings, and the hangings would make them realize just how inadvisable it would be to anger a sorcerer.
Not that Father has any human underlings to terrify. I wonder how the Silent Ones are taking this?
The banners would be much easier; there were no jewels to work around, and by now she had the knack of the spells. She slipped a bit more speed into the process, bringing up the trophies in all their barbaric glory, then polishing the beams and cleaning the ceiling of its layer of soot for good measure. The last bit of magic swept the formidable pile of dirt into the ash pit below the fireplace, and the Great Hall was cleaner than it had been since the day it was built.
The Black Swan Page 4