The Black Swan

by Mercedes Lackey

  Clothilde thought of love spells and other bewitchments possible to a powerful sorcerer, and nodded. "Nevertheless, he must have the . . . appearance of making a choice. For his sake, if not for mine."

  "I agree completely." The sorcerer nodded. "It is best if he has maidens to compare with my daughter. She will outshine them as the moon outshines the stars, and there will be no question in his mind but that he has chosen the fairest beauty in all the land."

  The queen smiled and extended her hand to the baron, "In that case, all conditions seem to be agreeable," she told him. "Uwe will give you my invitation to the birthday fete, and you may present your daughter to my son at his celebration."

  "Your Majesty has made me a supremely happy man," the baron told her, rising to kiss her extended hand, "Now, with your permission, I shall take my leave. I have far to go, and even a man with—power—at his disposal cannot go from hither to yon in an instant."

  She nodded. Uwe gave the baron the last of his invitations, and the man departed with a dramatic bow and a swirl of his cape, leaving minstrel and queen alone.

  Clothilde sat back against the support of the throne's cushions. "Well!" she said, folding her hands in her lap. "That was— interesting."

  "I thought you'd be intrigued." Uwe poured himself a goblet of wine, and sat down on the lowest step of the dais, "Believe me, he's no charlatan; he showed up to give Josef a little help— for an undisclosed fee, of course—when Josef's brother started eying the throne a little too closely. That was right after I arrived, and I was just about to leave with the invitation in my pocket,"

  "God's Blessing, I should think so," the queen exclaimed. "I do not need to multiply my problems by adding a father-in-law with a shaky throne in need of propping up! What did he do, kill the usurper?"

  "Nothing so crude—as he pointed out to Josef, that would be murder, which is a sin. He turned the man into a swine." Uwe smirked. "Right in front of the entire court, mind you. I was there, I saw it; it was no mere illusion, and as far as I know, a swine he remains, to this day. Told Josef that he couldn't do that sort of thing without Divine blessing, mind you—the rule is evidently that the magic doesn't work unless the victim has betrayed someone or otherwise broken faith. Still."

  "Still." The queen pursed her lips, then rose. Taking Uwe's goblet from him, she sipped it herself as she thought for a moment. "Not so difficult to get someone to swear to something, an oath he has no intention of keeping. Should it become necessary, of course."

  "Of course." Uwe's expression was bland. "And, of course, our prince is a lusty fellow and has a wandering eye. I doubt that a love spell can be made to hold him to one woman for very long. Be a pity if he broke his marriage vows and his father-in-law took exception to the fact, hmm?"

  The queen smiled blandly. "Avery great pity," she murmured. "A very great pity indeed."

  SIEGFRIED couldn't imagine what his mother had been doing that made her smile so much at him that night at dinner, but whatever it was, he was glad of it. Maybe it was just that her pet minstrel was back; she always seemed out of temper when his wandering feet took him off to another court. But as long as the queen was happy, everyone breathed a little easier. When she wasn't happy, it didn't do to display anything but sobriety and melancholy in her presence.

  For his part, Siegfried was entirely contented when he sat down to dinner beside his mother at the head table. His previous mistresses had quietly and gracefully taken themselves out of his life, with not a single tear or complaint, at least according to Arno. They'd taken their final gifts with expressions of gratitude, and left him free to install that delicious wench from the tavern in the palace as soon as Arno could find her a position. There was something to be said in favor of experience, and there was no doubt in his mind after his little trial of her that she'd had experience in plenty.

  Which means it should take a long time before I'm tired of her. He smiled into his cup, thinking about the novel turns she'd shown him in that cozy chamber in the inn—and a couple of things she'd suggested that he'd never even heard of before. With a woman like that in his bed, he could afford to take the time to court Sir Hans' sister-in-law; he could enjoy the chase without going mad with frustration. But I'll have to make it clear from the start to both of them that I am the master, and I won't tolerate either of them acting as if she has any rights over me. He'd made the mistake of letting that happen only once. It had been the same occasion that prompted his resolve never to take a leman from the same rank as his last—or current—bedmates. The resulting hair-pulling match in the laundry had even come to the attention of the queen, and that had resulted in a lecture that still made him want to cringe.

  Never mind. They will both understand from the beginning what the rules are, and that they will abide by them. They have more to gain from me than I from them. There were always plenty of women ready to take his presents and grant him their bodies. His main difficulties came from being selective.

  The final course of subtleties had been brought in while he was thinking; as usual, he waved everything away but a single ripe pear, peeled, cored, and drenched in honeyed wine. He didn't have much of a craving for sweets, though everyone else had helped themselves generously. Uwe the minstrel was singing some new ballad in the latest style, something he'd probably written or picked up on his travels. The queen toyed with a bit of marzipan window from the pastry palace in front of her as she listened, a definite smile still lingering on her lips. She'd crumbled most of the sweet rather than eating it, another sign that she was well-pleased with something; she only devoured her sweets as everyone else did when she was in a bad humor.

  Excellent, Siegfried thought, watching her out of the corner of his eye while he pretended to listen to Uwe's singing, affectations and all. The happier she is, the less attention she pays to what I do. He knew he could leave arrangements for the new girl in Arno's hands. And until Arno brings her up here, I can always go down to the village. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had a girl down there, and it wouldn't be the last. He wondered if he ought to offer Dorian the use of one or more of his discarded lemans; heaven only knew that if the poor fellow was going to be leg-shackled to an ugly mare, he might as well have a gallop with a frisky filly first. It would be a friendly gesture, especially after trouncing him so badly the other day.

  I'll have Arno see to it, he decided, feeling decidedly generous. In fact, I think I'll have them smuggled into his bed, and he can take his choice. Another generous present should ensure their cooperation. He could imagine Dorian's reaction at finding three toothsome lovelies waiting for him wearing nothing but their long hair. . . .

  That's a better wedding present than he'll get from anyone else, Siegfried thought with a chuckle—fortunately covered by the applause as Uwe finished his song.

  The end of the song signaled the formal end of dinner, though many of those with nothing else to do would linger over wine and cakes. The queen rose, and her household rose with her; everyone else stood and bowed as she and her ladies—and the minstrel—left the hall. Their departure meant that the less refined forms of amusement could begin.

  No more minstrels warbling ballads of Courtly Love—one fighter bellowed out the chorus of a drinking song, and two more chimed in. Several dicing games began on the floor, and an arm- wrestling match or two over the tables, while two of the serving wenches plumped themselves down into the laps of men who'd been eying them all evening.

  Siegfried waited a moment to see if anything more interesting developed, but when nothing did, he also left the hall. Unfortunately, he couldn't participate without getting into trouble. The queen would claim he compromised his rank and dignity, and that the men wouldn't respect his authority if he acted like one of them.

  Tonight he didn't really regret his enforced aloofness. The afternoon's exertions had eased some of his restlessness, and he wasn't in the mood for the horseplay that usually took place after dinner.

  He decided in favor of a walk in the moonl
it gardens, thinking that it was possible he would encounter the fair widow Adelaide there. And even if he didn't—well, the summer would be over far too soon; pleasant walks in a warm, scented garden would be impossible until spring.

  There was a full moon, which had tempted several others out into the gardens as well. The perfume of roses hung heavily in the still, balmy air, and all the paths through the garden reflected moonlight, making rivers of light winding among the flower beds. Soft murmurs of conversation came from secluded bowers; with a grin, Siegfried kept his distance from all of them. Not that he'd surprise anything more ribald than a kiss in the formal gardens, for there was not enough privacy here for amorous couples to risk more, but maidens of good breeding would be horribly shamed by being caught in even a kiss.

  Thank God for women of low breeding!

  Women who were not meeting lovers by prearrangement would walk on the paths, or sit on one of the garden benches placed in the open, talking together, or hoping to be seen by a prospective suitor. That would be where he would find Adelaide, if she had, indeed, come out here. Couples who had more in mind than a kiss would be someplace where there was no chance of interruption-—there were plenty of places to go in warm weather. It was easy enough to pitch a tiny pavilion in the orchards or meadows, to take a boat out on one of the lakes, or to find a secluded nook on the palace grounds but away from the formal gardens. In winter—there was the inn, a couple of hunting lodges, but anything else took the complicity of two or more others to help in getting a moment of privacy. It wasn't the norm for members of the queen's household to have private quarters— only those of very high rank indeed had even a tiny room to themselves. Most slept in dormitories or a room stocked with several narrow beds, or shared a larger bed with one or more fellows. The maiden fosterlings of Clothilde's train, for instance, slept three to a bed in a room just above Clothilde's chambers, a room that itself held four beds. Even her unmarried ladies-in- waiting slept in pairs, in tiny closet-like rooms nearby. Benno and two of the younger nobles shared a similar room, for instance, although they did not have to share a bed, and that was the norm for those who did not reside in a nearby manse. Some of Clothilde's ladies-in-waiting had manors nearby, but those who did not shared a chamber either with their husbands or with other ladies whose husbands were dead or off somewhere on the queen's service. That meant any dalliance had to take place with the complicity of one's fellows, or somewhere inside or outside of the palace where one could find a private corner. Finding a private corner took ingenuity and persistence, since it might well fall out that another had already marked that spot and taken possession.

  Siegfried found the game endlessly amusing, though others doubtless found it frustrating. Tonight, however, he was in a softer mood, and was content to stroll about the garden, murmuring polite greetings to the ladies he encountered, and smiling with indulgence at the amorous twitterings in the bowers.

  He strolled every path of the garden twice over; since he still hadn't encountered his quarry, he decided to seek his bed. And I'll definitely go back down to the inn tomorrow morning, he decided, in pleasant contentment. It really didn't matter all that much that he hadn't encountered the widow. She might be having second thoughts, especially if her brother-in-law had made it plain what kind of liaison she could expect with Siegfried. She might believe—erroneously—that if she held herself chaste, she could inflame him enough to get him to the altar. Or she might simply be shy, modest, unwilling to play the game he had in mind. She would either change her mind, sooner or later, or resign herself to living on Sir Hans' thin charity. There weren't many options open to a widow of meager rank and modest beauty, and the older she became, the fewer there were. If she were skilled at embroidery or weaving, she might find a position in Clothilde's service, but she would then find herself almost as cloistered as if she'd gone to a nunnery. Clothilde did not care for losing a skilled worker, and kept her weavers and embroiderers mewed up away from the temptations set for them by men. She said she was protecting their souls, but Siegfried had heard her on the rare occasions when one had wedded out of the workroom, and it wasn't their virtue Queen Clothilde was concerned with, it was their craft.

  Arno and two of the manservants were waiting for Siegfried when he climbed the stairs to his quarters. He let them undress him and climbed into his bed with a pleasant sense of anticipation for what awaited him on the morrow. Frogs and the occasional hoot of an owl outside his window lulled him quickly to sleep.

  He drifted from soothing darkness into a dream—knowing that he dreamed, which was unusual—with no sense of anxiety. In his dream, he walked through the gardens as he had this evening, but this time he was completely alone. It wasn't night, although it didn't seem to be day, either. There was neither sun nor moon, only a gray twilight with no evident source—but since he knew this was a dream, the absence of sun, moon, or stars didn't disturb him.

  The garden path led him abruptly into a wall of trees, and he found himself facing an unfamiliar woodland landscape. He hesitated for a moment, with no clues as to what lay beneath the trees.

  Should I go on, or turn back?

  He turned to look behind him, only to discover that the gardens were gone, vanished completely. Before, behind, all around him was the forest. Evidently he had no choice about entering the woods; he shrugged and went on,

  It was darker under the trees than it had been in the garden, but it was still brighter than the moonlight had been tonight. His dream-woods were also strangely empty—no birds, no animals, not even a rustling in the underbrush.

  Just when he decided that he was the only living thing in his dream that wasn't a plant, he spotted a dim figure, partly obscured by foliage, on the path ahead of him. That was something of a relief; the dream had begun to bore him. He picked up his pace a trifle, from a slow stroll to a faster walk. As he neared the stranger, he saw that it was a woman.

  More than that—a nude woman—and he felt himself grinning, in anticipation of one of his favorite erotic fantasies. His loins tingled and tightened, and he licked his lips. Oh, of course !t was only a dream, but dreams were good in their own way—

  But the woman moved stiffly, her gait odd and stilted, and as she neared, her expressionless face gave him a sudden chill. The hair on the back of his neck rose, his pleasant anticipation vanished, and in his dream he stopped still on the path, frozen, unable to move.

  What is this? He had never had a dream like this before!

  She continued to approach him, and he saw that her eyes were glazed, her movements jerky, and her skin had the chill, blue- gray tinge of one long dead.

  Jesu Cristos! It was a liche, some thing out of the grave!

  Fear sat in his stomach, a cold, hard lump that grew with every passing moment; he wanted to move and could not. Cold sweat poured out of him-, the woman drew nearer still. It was then that he recognized her as the gypsy girl from the river.

  Her glassy eyes did not seem to see him as she walked nearer and nearer, arms dangling at her sides. He tried desperately to move, fearing now that she would reach for him, and knowing that he could not bear the touch of her cold, dead hand without screaming.

  But she stopped just short of where he stood. Her hands slowly rose, and in them she now held a mirror. She raised it between them until it was even with his face. Unable to look away, he stared at his own reflection, numb with nameless dread.

  The mirror reflected his face for no more than a heartbeat. As he stared into his own eyes, his reflection shimmered, darkened, then changed.

  As his stomach churned and twisted with horror, he found himself staring at the face of a ravening wolf. Blood dripped from its jowls, its teeth clamped deeply into a soft-fleshed arm, clearly ripped from the body of a girl or a child. It stared back at him, looking as if it would be perfectly happy to drop the arm it gnawed and leap out of the mirror at his throat.

  And it still had his eyes.

  With a terrified shout, he wrenched himself free of th
e spell holding him—

  —and fell, tangled in the bedcurtains, out of bed.

  The curtains softened and slowed his fall; he didn't make much of a thud, and apparently his shout had only been in his dream, for none of the servants started up out of their slumbers to see what ailed him. He lay on the floor in a sweat-drenched knot of sheets and curtains for an interminable length of time, shaking, while his heart pounded and he panted and gasped as if he had been running.

  It was a dream. Just a dream. He tried to tell himself that, but was it? Gypsies were supposed to be witches and magicians. Had the girl cast a curse on him in spite?

  He tried to reassure himself that it was a singularly ineffective curse, if all it could do was give him a nightmare. A senseless nightmare, at that. . . .

  It didn't help. Cold sweat still dripped down his back and shoulders, and every muscle cramped and tensed with the need to flee.

  Gradually his heartbeat slowed, his sweat dried, and his logical mind got control over the rest of him.

  I am no little child to hide under the bed, scared by a dream.

  Or so he told himself. Quietly, so as not to wake the servants, he untangled himself from his bed coverings and got to his feet. He knew where the pitcher of water stood. Feeling his way to the chest where it waited, he drank straight from the lip without bothering with the cup beside it. That took care of his fear-dried mouth and throat and settled the flutters in his stomach. He felt his way back to the bed, pulling his coverings back in place as best he could before climbing back into it.

  Jesu preserve me from another such night! He pulled the covers about himself, and shivered a little in the darkness. Logic told him that this was nothing more than a single bad dream—that there was no significance in it—but his heart and guts didn't believe in logic. He wanted to berate himself for cringing in the bed like a frightened child, but at the moment, he was a frightened child who longed with all his soul for the welcome light of dawn.