Especially without a mirror," Odette agreed, deftly braiding the heavy mane of silk, and arranging it in a kind of crown ground Odile's head. "I've never known—why doesn't von Rothbart permit any mirrors?"
Because mirrors show the truth," Odile replied, unable to suppress a yawn. "If you, as a swan, were reflected in a mirror, it would be your human shape that was in the reflection, not the swan. I don't know why."
"Oh." Odette put the final pin in place and gave her construction a pat to test its solidity. "Here, I think this will hold better than the knot you've been wearing."
Odile moved her head experimentally. "It's certainly not as heavy," she agreed, pleased, and yawned again. "I can't believe I'm so tired! I only woke up a few hours ago, and I'm ready to go to sleep as soon as I get dinner."
"I can," Odette said, and the odd, grim tone in her voice made Odile turn to stare at her, startled. She looked into the older girl's dark eyes, and saw things there that she hadn't anticipated. Much of the wariness was gone, replaced by an intent concentration.
"Why?" she asked. What does she know that I should? And why is she going to tell me?
Odette hesitated a moment, biting her lip. "Von Rothbart was here, wasn't he?" she asked. Then without waiting for Odile to reply, continued, "And you didn't feel tired until after he was gone, right? Nor is this the first time that's happened. In fact, most times that he leaves, you feel tired. No, not tired— drained."
Odile didn't reply immediately, but she knew without thinking back too far that Odette was right. It was something that she simply hadn't thought much about. Because I didn't want to? And she knew that Odette had used the word "drained" deliberately.
For she had wondered before how it was that her father managed to accomplish so much magically, and yet have far more power available than she. Not all of it could be marked up to experience and knowledge. Power had to come from somewhere. And sometimes—it comes from me.
"He's done it to us, drained us," Odette went on, as if she knew exactly what Odile was thinking. "He's been doing it all along; I noticed it and began to keep track of it—I've seen him arrive when we all felt well, stay for a few minutes, then leave, and we all felt exhausted. That's why we don't do much when we're around him; by the time he's finished doing whatever it is he does to pull all of our energy out of us, all we can do is laze about like so many invalids. I've thought all along that was why he caught us and why he's kept us in the first place, and that what we did is merely a convenient excuse. We give him power, more power than he could ever have by himself." She was silent for a moment, as Odile struggled with the growing certainty that Odette was right.
It makes too much sense not to be right. But she could have Father's priorities completely backward. Why shouldn't he benefit from keeping them? Don't they cost him magic to keep them as swans, and to keep them safe? I wonder—is this part of their penance, or—
"Of course," Odette continued thoughtfully, "that begs the question of why he has agreed to a trial that might release us."
"He doesn't expect you to win free," Odile suggested, hoping she didn't sound as distressed as she felt, for she still couldn't shake the doubts that Odette's words had raised in her.
Odette nodded. "Or—"
Odile slowly closed her eyes, then looked directly into the eyes of the Swan Queen. "Or?" she prompted, searching Odette's face for any sign that the young woman was trying to goad her, or manipulate her, and finding nothing of the kind.
Or—now that you're grown, he doesn't need us for power anymore," Odette said, and bit her lip again. "After all, you are a sorceress; I should think that would mean you have more of what he's using. It would certainly be easier to have power come from a single willing and obedient daughter than from a flock of unwilling captives who themselves must take his magic to keep bewitched."
Odile felt her stomach knot, and tasted something sour in the back of her throat. She had words piling up in her mind, a great many of them—but to blurt them out would be a betrayal of her father. Fortunately, Odette saved her from having to answer.
"Odile, I know nothing of magic; this is all speculation—" she shook her head. "I don't mean to distress you, or to upset you. I just didn't want your father to use you without your knowledge, as mine used me."
Odile eagerly seized on the possible change of subject; anything to drive the unwelcome suspicions away, and put Odette on the defensive. She had never heard Odette's version of her capture, only what von Rothbart had said—that Odette had been betrothed to a great prince who would have brought his private army to the king's service, and that when Odette betrayed her father and ran away, it nearly cost her father his kingdom. "What do you mean? Father said that you betrayed your father—"
Odette's mouth twisted into a bitter smile, and her eyes hardened. "I suppose you could say that I did, but only after he betrayed me—" She shook her head violently. "Oh, I don't know why you should believe me, but—if you wish to hear the story, I will tell it to you, in as few words as I may."
Odile nodded, now intensely curious.
Odette looked out over the water of the lake, and the silver path that the moon had written across the water. "My father promised my mother when I was very young that he would never force me to wed against my will. He swore this on holy relics once again when she was on her deathbed. He repeated the promise to me, then promptly broke his promises the moment she was dead. He betrothed me to a man he wished to make an ally, a very powerful prince with an army twice the size of ours, and one border adjoining ours. I can only assume that he had intended to do this all along, since there were betrothal gifts an a portrait of the prince in my room two days after my mother was buried."
"And you didn't like him?" Odile asked.
"I didn't know him," Odette replied, her eyes growing angry. "And since my father made it very clear that since he needed this alliance, I was going to marry this man even if he was a walking corpse, I had no reason to think that I would like him. He was older than my grandfather, he had already buried four wives and was looking for a fifth, and not even a court painter could put warmth in his cold gaze. I had no intention of marrying him."
"And?" Odile prompted.
"And—I persuaded one of my father's squires that I was in love with him, and that we must run away together." She dropped her eyes, and flushed. Now her voice took on tones of shame. "I convinced him that we could seek sanctuary in the Emperor's Court, and find a priest to wed us once we were there—there are always priests in a large city who will perform wedding ceremonies for anyone with money. I wasn't in love with him, of course. I didn't intend to marry him—in fact, I intended to desert him as soon as we reached the Emperor's Court. I also planned, while waiting to appeal to the Emperor, to become involved with at least half a dozen Princes of the Blood, so that if the Emperor would not grant me sanctuary, I would have three or four more suitors to play off against my father's choice. Needless to say, I would not have counted that poor little son of a count among them. So I suppose I betrayed him as well . . . but we never got there, we never got more than a mile from home, because your father must have been watching me. As soon as I passed the bounds of the royal estate and it was clear that I intended to carry out my scheme, something happened. A great, dark cloud appeared out of the blue sky and descended over us while our horses froze with fear. The squire was struck unconscious, and the very next thing I knew, I was a swan flying above road, there was a great owl behind me that was driving me ahead of him, and that was all there was to it. The rest, you already know."
Odile suppressed a feeling of triumph after hearing the story her father was completely justified in condemning Odette. Not only had Odette betrayed the three men who had depended on her, but she admitted it! And she drops words into my ear that she knows will create doubts about Father. I am a loyal daughter—I would never have gone against my father's wishes that way! Had I been in her position—
But there her thoughts faltered in more doubt, more uncertainty. W
ould she have married this unknown man had her father demanded it? Especially after he had pledged he would never force her?
What was wrong with her? Why were her thoughts so unsettled? Why had everything become so complicated?
Odette said nothing more, and she didn't seem to expect an answer from Odile. They sat together in uncomfortable silence for some time, until Elke, one of the little swans, ran up to them, providing them both with a welcome distraction.
"Odette!" Elke said, bubbling over with excitement. "You must come and see what the Black Swan has done for us! You must come and see our new home! It is better than last night!"
"And it will be better still when I summon supper for us all. Odile responded to the girl, getting to her feet and brushing her skirt off self-consciously. "Can you think of anything you would like?"
"Oh!" Elke clapped her hands like a small child, and laughed. "More of those honey cakes!"
Odile chuckled weakly. "I believe I can manage that. Odette. Will you come?"
The Swan Queen watched the lake, and replied quietly. In a little. Please, go on without me."
Odile shrugged, and Elke ran back to the shelter, with Odile following slowly in her wake, her mind on more than just a few honey cakes.
BY the time the royal party reached the village of Schwarzbaum, it was well after nightfall, and Siegfried had spent about three hours' worth of time with each of the princesses. Thanks to Clothilde's clever management, all six had spent an equal amount of time in riding at his side. The one thing he could say with surety about the experience was that it had been educational. If his mother had gone out of her way to discover six young women who were entirely different from each other, she could not have managed better. Thus far, he had decided that he could eliminate two from his choice of bride, however; Evangeline and Angelique.
A second hour with Angelique chattering beside him had confirmed his first impression; he would have to be deaf in order to wed her, for the flow of words never stopped. The third hour was precisely the same, in spite of many, many hints that she stop talking. Once, he called her attention to the song of a lark nearby; she couldn't even hold her tongue long enough to hear more than a dozen notes. On another occasion, he asked her if she had any questions about his kingdom, hoping to at least interrupt her chatter with a few words of his own. Even that ploy failed, as she would begin a question, which would eventually be lost as she Meandered through a dozen more subjects.
Evangeline, on the other hand, was far too inscrutable. He literally did not know what she thought on any subject, for any attempt to garner an opinion from her met with clever deflection.
That, combined with her ever-so-slightly-superior attitude, was as Maddening as Angelique's river of chatter. He would ask her a question, and she would turn it back with another. He would ask her opinion, and she would counter smoothly with an observation of what someone else had said on the subject. Although such a trait would be a valuable diplomatic asset, he really didn't want it used on him. He needed to know what his wife—or would-be wife—was thinking, and he didn't even know Evangeline's most trivial preferences. How could he possibly tell if they were compatible? In fact—how could I possibly tell if she hated me, my kingdom, and everything around her? How could I tell if she was planning on stabbing me in my bed? Well, that probably wasn't a danger, but he really didn't want to find himself playing King Mark to Evangeline's Isolde.
The other four maidens were still all possible candidates, and he didn't intend to tell Angelique and Evangeline that they were already out of the running and spoil their enjoyment of the festivities. Instead, he would drop hints to some of his unmarried friends—or their fathers—letting them know that the way was clear to the two rejected brides. As Benno had said, any of them would be happy to wed the most flawed of these beauties, given that their faces and fortunes were handsome. So, it was entirely possible that both the rejected maidens would come away from this fete with betrothals—even though they were not betrothed to Prince Siegfried.
When the cavalcade reached the village, he was deep in a discussion of falconry with Princess Honoria, who was not only a devotee of the sport, but to his surprise and delight, actually trapped and trained her own birds. Most ladies left such work to their falconers, but Honoria was firmly of the opinion that the only way to truly know the capabilities and win the guarded trust of a bird was to conduct all the training herself. For that matter, most ladies were content to fly sparrowhawks and kestrels, with only the most enthusiastic handling peregrines. Honoria routinely flew the fierce and temperamental goshawks and power gyrfalcons, and had ambitions to one day fly an eagle! If her tally of last year's game was correct—and he had no reason to suspect that she was exaggerating—she could hold her own with the most expert falconers.
"I actually have a surprisingly gentle gos," Honoria was saying, as Siegfried noticed the lights of the village winking ahead of them on the road, and caught the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat on the breeze. "I brought her with me; I trapped her this spring as a brancher, and she literally tamed overnight. Any of my falconers can handle her. In fact, anyone who is fearless and steady with her can handle her, and she's rarely yaracky, even when she's quite hungry. She always returns to the lure, and she's never struck at me even when she's missed a kill."
Siegfried was quite impressed. "How is she at the hunt?"
"She takes hares and ducks with ease," Honoria told him proudly. "She's taken foxes, and even a badger! She's absolutely fearless, and I only wish I could have birds of her breeding—to establish a bloodline in the same way that it's possible to breed horses."
Siegfried had to sigh at that, for such an idea was a virtual impossibility, and he was certain Honoria knew it.
It was too dark to see her smile at his sigh, but he heard her chuckle. "I know what you are thinking, and no, I am not such a fool to try such a thing. But what I am thinking of doing is to mark her somehow, perhaps with a silver ring upon her leg, and let her fly free in a few years in a little valley where I know there are no goshawks. I'll trap a tiercel-hawk and release him in the same valley. Then I shall post a forester there to keep an eye on her, and if she breeds, to take an eyas when it is well feathered."
Now that is a plan which has much promise, my lady," he agreed, liking her ability to find solutions to problems that would make others give up.
I would still like to know just what color hair she has beneath that coif, he thought, as their horses drew near enough to the village to hear a distant murmur of voices. This one might well do, though; if she is as intelligent on other subjects as she is on the subject of falconry, I would have a great deal to share with her.
Then, before he had a chance to ask any more questions, a stream of lights poured up the road toward them, and the distant murmur became a chorus of cheers.
Siegfried was not surprised at the enthusiastic reception; there must have been a servant posted on the road to warn the rest when the royal party was near. It would impress and please the guests to have a torchlight greeting, and no one would know that it was only the servants.
Within moments, the servants formed a double line of torches on either side of the road, cheering the arrival of the queen and prince and their guests. Queen Clothilde casually urged her horse past Siegfried's, who moved aside to let her take the head of the procession. The servants had set up the pavilions on the village common, and the torchbearers led the way to the encampment, a neat little village in itself.
The princesses were clearly delighted with the hospitality waiting for them, as well they should have been. Siegfried, who had been a part of the planning, was impressed.
Each of the pavilions prepared for the princesses was a different color, and all of them were lit from within so that they glowed like many-hued lanterns. Small fires set in braziers and oil-filled torches ensured that the grounds were handsomely lit. The pavilions had been set up surrounding a central tent, striped in red and blue, where the nobility would be ente
rtained and fed as sumptuously as if they were back at the palace. Clothilde had. brought all her own musicians and had hired a traveling troupe of entertainers as well. If it grew chill, braziers of charcoal with perfumes or incense sprinkled over them would warm the air; it grew warm, the sides of the tent could be raised to allow breezes to flow through. Already a trio of Clothilde's musicians had begun playing to welcome the new arrivals, and there was a stream of pages carrying food and drink into the tent. Squires appeared to hold each horse and assist each princess from her mount, and escort her into the tent for a belated supper.
Clever. Mother is going to keep them occupied so that they don't miss my presence. I can spend my evening without entertaining the ladies. He saluted the queen when the last of the princesses was safely inside the tent; she gave him a brief nod as Uwe helped her down from her own horse. Siegfried took that as his signal to depart; he, Benno, and the cart holding Wolfgang departed for the inn.
They rode into the village, which stood just out of sight of the encampment; the inn was a handsome little rustic building, two- storied, built in the same style as a hunting lodge. Arno was already there, waiting at the door beside the portly innkeeper, clad in a spotless white apron, who was overjoyed to see Siegfried at last. "Highness!" the man cried happily. "I do not know how we are to serve so honored a guest, but—"
"But just give us your soft beds, good beer, and your fine food, and we will be happy enough," Siegfried interrupted, feeling great relief that he did not need to wrack his brain for more ways to interview his prospective brides, and did not need to produce any more diplomatic speeches.
The inn is yours," the innkeeper said proudly. "There are no other folk staying as guests, nor will there be until after you have gone."
That was good news, for Siegfried already knew that there were only three rooms above the common hall, and that meant each of them would have his own room. Arno, of course, would quarter with Siegfried, as Benno's man would lodge with him.
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