The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror
Page 50
Trees, fashioned by carpenters and blacksmiths, spread along the walls. The head cook had sculpted dough songbirds encrusted them with dyed sugars and marzipan beaks.
The orchestra was instructed not to play any tune not found in nature. This left them perplexed and often silent.
“Fraulein Odile von Rothbart and her guest Fraulein Elster Schwanensee.” The herald standing on the landing had an oiled, thick mustache.
Odile cringed beneath the layers of twigs and parchment that covered her torso and trailed off to sweep the floor. How they all stared at her. She wanted to squeeze Elster’s hand for strength but found nothing in her grasp; she paused halfway down the staircase, perplexed by her empty hand. She turned back to the crowd of courtiers but saw no sign of her swan maid.
The courtiers flocked around her. They chattered, so many voices that she had trouble understanding anything they said.
“That frock is so . . . unusual.” The elderly man who spoke wore a cardinal’s red robes. “How very bold to be so . . . indigenous.”
A sharp-nosed matron held a silken pomander beneath her nostrils. “I hope that is imported mud binding those sticks,” she muttered.
The Lovebirds
Elster picked up a crystal glass of chilled Silvaner from a servant’s platter. She held the dry wine long in her mouth, wanting to remember its taste when she had to plunge a beak into moat water.
“Fraulein von Rothbart. Our fathers would have us dance.”
Elster turned around. She had been right about the uniform. Her heart ached to touch the dark blue-like-evening wool, the gilded buttons, the medals at the chest, and the thick gold braid on the shoulders. A uniform like that would only be at home in a wardrobe filled with fur-lined coats, jodhpurs for riding with leather boots, silken smoking jackets that smelled of Turkish tobacco. The man who owned such clothes would only be satisfied if his darling matched him in taste.
She lowered her gaze with much flutter and curtsied low.
“I am pleased you wore my gift.” The prince had trimmed fingernails that looked so pink as to possibly be polished. He lifted up one section of the necklace she wore. The tip of his pinky slid into the crease between her breasts. “How else would I know you?”
She offered a promissory smile.
He led her near where the musicians sought to emulate the chirp of crickets at dusk.
“So, I must remember to commend your father on his most successful enchantment.”
“Your Imperial and Royal Highness is too kind.”
Three other couples, lavish in expensive fabric and pearls and silver, joined them in a quadrille. As the pairs moved, their feet kicked up plumes of silk leaves. Despite the gold she wore around her neck, Elster felt as if she were a tarnished coin thimblerigged along the dance floor.
“I have an admission to make,” she whispered in the prince’s ear when next she passed him. “I’m not the sorcerer’s daughter.”
The prince took hold of her arm, not in a rough grasp, but as if afraid she would vanish. “If this is a trick—”
“Once I shared your life of comfort. Sheets as soft as a sigh. Banquet halls filled with drink and laughter. Never the need for a seamstress as I never wore a dress twice.
“My parents were vassals in Saxony. Long dead now.” She slipped free of his hold and went to the nearest window. She waited for his footsteps, waited to feel him press against her. “Am I looking East? To a lost home?”
She turned around. Her eyes lingered a moment on the plum-colored ribbon sewn to one medal on his chest. “So many years ago—I have lost count—a demonic bird flew into my bedchamber.”
“Von Rothbart.”
Elster nodded at his disgust. “He stole me away, back to his lonely tower. Every morning I woke to find myself trapped as a swan. Every night he demands I become his bride. I have always refused.”
“I have never stood before such virtue.” The prince began to tear as he stepped back and then fell to one knee. “Though I can see why even the Devil would promise himself to you.”
His eyes looked too shiny, as if he might start crying or raving like a madman. Elster had seen the same sheen in Odile’s eyes. Elster squeezed the prince’s hand but looked over her shoulder at where she had parted with the sorcerer’s daughter. The art of turning someone into a bird would never dress her in cashmere or damask. Feathers were only so soft and comforting.
The Lost
When Odile was a young girl, her father told her terrible tales every Abend vor Allerheiligen. One had been about an insane cook who had trapped over twenty blackbirds and half-cooked them as part of a pie. All for the delight of a royal court. Odile had nightmares about being trapped with screeching chicks, all cramped in the dark, the stink of dough, the rising heat. She would not eat any pastry for years.
Watching Elster dance with the prince filled Odile with pain. She didn’t know whether such hurt needed tears or screams to be freed. She approached them. The pair stopped turning.
“Your warning in the coach? Is this your choice?” asked Odile.
Elster nodded though her hands released the prince’s neck.
The rara lingua to tear the swan maid’s humanity from her slipped between Odile’s lips with one long gasp. Her face felt feverish and damp. Perhaps tears. She called for Papa to take the swan by the legs into the kitchen and return carrying a bulging strudel for the prince.
The Strygian
As a long-eared pother owl, von Rothbart had hoped to intimidate the nobles with a blood-curdling shriek as he flew in through a window. An impressive father earned respect, he knew. But with the cacophony in the ballroom—courtiers screaming, guards shouting, the orchestra attempting something cheerful—only three fainted.
Von Rothbart roosted on the high-backed chair at the lead table. He shrugged off a mantle of feathers and seated himself with his legs on the tablecloth and his boots in a dish of poached boar.
“I suppose the venery for your lot would be an inbred of royals.”
No one listened.
He considered standing atop the table but his knees ached after every transformation. As did his back. Instead, he pushed his way through the crowd at the far end, where most of the commotion seemed centered.
He did not expect to find a tearful Odile surrounded by a ring of lowered muskets. One guard trembled so. The prince shouted at her. The king pulled at his son’s arm.
Von Rothbart raised his arms. The faux trees shook with a sudden wind that topped glasses, felled wigs, and swept the tiles free of silk leaves. “Stop,” he shouted. “Stop and hear me!”
All eyes turned to him. He tasted fear as all the muskets pointed at him.
“You there, I command you to return Elster to me.” The prince’s face had become ruddy with ire. His mouth flecked with spittle.
“Who?”
“No lies, Sorcerer. Choose your words carefully”
The king stepped between them. He looked old. As old as von Rothbart felt. “Let us have civil words.”
“Papa—” cried Odile.
“If you have hurt my daughter in any way—”
A cardinal standing nearby smoothed out his sanguine robes. “Your daughter bewitched an innocent tonight.”
“She flew away from me,” said the prince. “My sweet Elster is out there. At night. All alone.”
Von Rothbart looked around him. He could not remember ever being so surrounded by men and women and their expressions of disgust, fear, and hatred left him weak. Weak as an old fool, one who thought he could ingratiate his dear child into their ranks like a cuckoo did with its egg.
Only magpies would care for such shiny trappings and they were sorrowful birds who envied human speech.
He took a deep breath and held it a moment as the magic began. His lungs hurt as the storm swirled within his body. He winced as a rib cracked. He lost two teeth as the gusts escaped his mouth. The clouds painted on the ceiling became dark and thick and spat lightning and rain down upon
the people.
Odile stretched and caught the wind von Rothbart sent her as the crowd fled. He took her out of the palace and into the sky. It pained him to speak so all he asked her was if she was hurt. The tears that froze on her cheeks answered yes, Papa.
The Black Swain
“Von Rothbart!”
Odile looked out the window. She had expected the prince. Maybe he’d be waving a sword or a blunderbuss and be standing before a thousand men. But not the king standing by the doors and a regal carriage drawn by snorting stallions. He looked dapper in a wool suit, and she preferred his round fur hat to a crown.
“Von Rothbart, please, I seek an audience with you.”
Odile ran down the staircase and then opened the doors.
The king plucked the hat from his head and stepped inside. “Fraulein von Rothbart.”
“Your majesty.” She remembered to curtsy.
“Your father—”
“Papa is ill. Ever since . . . well, that night, he’s been taken to bed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Your departure was marvelous. The court has been talking of nothing else for days.” The king chuckled. “I’d rather be left alone.”
She led him to the rarely used sitting room. The dusty upholstery embarrassed her.
“It’s quiet here. Except the birds of course.” The king winced. “My apologies.”
“Your son—”
“Half-mad they say. Those who have seen him. He’s roaming the country side hoping to find her. A swan by day and the fairest maiden by night.” He tugged at his hat, pulling it out of shape. “Only, she’s not turning back to a maiden again, is she?”
Odile sat down in her father’s chair. She shook her head.
“Unless, child, your father . . . or you would consent to removing the curse.”
“Why should I do that, your majesty?”
The king leaned forward. “When I was courting the queen, her father, a powerful duke, sent me two packages. In one, was an ancient sword. The iron blade dark and scarred. An heirloom of the duke’s family that went back generations, used in countless campaigns—every one a victory.” The king made a fist. “When I grasped the hilt, leather salted by sweat, I felt I could lead an army.”
“And the second package?” Odile asked.
“That one contained a pillow.”
“A pillow?”
The king nodded. “Covered with gold brocade and stuffed with goose down.” The king laughed. “The messenger delivered as well a note that said I was to bring one, only one, of the packages with me to dinner at the ducal estate.”
“A test.”
“That is what my father said. My tutors had been soldiers not statesmen. The sword meant strength, courage, to my father. What a king should, no, must possess to keep his lands and people safe. To him the choice was clear.”
Odile smiled. Did all fathers enjoy telling stories of their youth?
“I thought to myself, if the answer was so clear then why the test? What had the duke meant by the pillow? Something soft and light, something womanly . . . ”
The notion of a woman being pigeonholed so irritated Odile. Was she any less a woman because she lacked the apparent grace of girls like Elster? She looked down at the breeches she liked to wear, comfortable not only because of the fit but because they had once been worn by her father. Her hands were not smooth but spotted with ink and rubbed with dirt from where she had begun to dig Papa’s grave. Their escape had been too taxing. She worried over each breath he struggled to take.
“ . . . meant to rest upon, to lie your head when sleeping. Perhaps choosing the pillow would show my devotion to his daughter, that I would be a loving husband before a valiant king—”
“Does he love her?” Odile asked.
The king stammered, as if unwilling to tear himself from the story.
“Your son. Does he love her?”
“What else would drive a man of privilege to the woods? He’s forsaken crown for thorn. Besides, a lost princess? Every peasant within miles has been bringing fowl to the palace hoping for a reward.”
“A princess.” Odile felt a bitter smile curl the edges of her mouth. Would his Royal Highness be roaming the land if he knew his true love was a seamstress? But then Odile remembered Elster’s touch, the softness of her lips, her skin.
Perhaps Elster had been meant to be born a princess. She had read in Papa’s books of birds that raid neighboring nests, roll out the eggs and lay their own. Perhaps that happened to girls as well. The poor parent never recognized the greedy chick for what it truly was. The prince might never as well.
If her own, unwanted destiny of doting bride had been usurped, then couldn’t she choose her future? Why not take the one denied to her?
“The rings on your fingers.”
“Worth a small fortune.” He removed thick bands set with rubies and pearls. “A bride price then? I could also introduce you to one of the many eligible members of my court.”
Odile took the rings, heavy and warm. “These will do,” she said and told the king to follow her.
By candlelight, she took him down to the dank cellar. He seemed a bit unnerved by the empty cage. She pulled out a tray of blackened eggs. Then another. “She’s here. They’re all here. Take them.”
The king lifted one egg. He looked it over then shook it by his ear.
“Look through the holes.” She held the candle flame high.
The king peered through one end. “My Lord,” he sputtered. The egg tumbled from his grasp and struck the floor, where it shattered like ancient pottery.
“There—There’s a tiny man sleeping inside.”
“I know.” She brushed aside the shards with her bare foot. A sharp edge cut her sole and left a bloody streak on the stones. “Don’t worry, you freed him.”
She left him the light. “Find the princess’s egg. Break all of them, if you want. There might be other princesses among them.” She started up the staircase.
“She stepped on his toes a great deal.”
“What was that?”
The king ran his hands over the curse eggs. “When I watched them dance, I noticed how often she stepped on my son’s toes. One would think her parents were quite remiss in not teaching her the proper steps.” He looked up at her with a sad smile. “One would think.”
Odile climbed to the top of the tower to her papa’s laboratory. Inside its cage, the wappentier screeched from both heads when she entered. Since their return, she had neglected it; Papa had been the only one who dared feed the beast.
Its last golden egg rested on a taxonomy book. She held it in her hands a moment before moving to the shutters and pushing them open. She felt the strong breeze. Wearing another shape, she could ride the air far. Perhaps all the way to the mountains. Or the sea.
The wanderlust, so new and strong, left her trembling. Abandoning a life could be cruel.
Still clutching the egg to her chest, she went down to her papa’s bedroom. He had trouble opening his eyes when she touched his forehead. He tried to speak but lacked the strength.
He’d never taught Odile about death or grieving, other than to mention the pelican hen shedding blood to revive her children. Odile hoped her devotion would mend him. She devised rara lingua with a certainty that surprised her. As she envisioned the illustrated vellum of her lessons, her jaw began to ache. Her mouth tasted like the salt spray of the ocean. She looked down at her arms. Where the albumen dripped, white feathers grew.
She called out, the sound hoarse and new and strange, but so fitting coming from the heavy body she wore. As a pelican, she squatted besides Papa’s pillow. Her long beak, so heavy and ungainly as she moved her head, rose high. She plunged it down into her own breast, once, twice, until blood began to spill. Drops fell on to Papa’s pale lips. As she hopped about the bed, it spattered onto his bared chest.
She forced her eyes to remain open despite the pain, so she could be assured that the color did return to his face, to see
the rise and fall of each breath grow higher, stronger.
He raised his hand to her chest but she nudged his fingers away. Her wound had already begun to close on its own.
When she returned to human form, she touched above her breasts and felt the thick line of a scar. No, she decided it must be a badge, a medal like the prince had worn. She wanted it seen.
“Lear would be envious.” Papa said in a voice weak but audible, “to have such a pelican daughter.”
She laughed and cried a bit as well. She could not voice how his praise made her feel. So after she helped him sit up in bed, she went to his cluttered wardrobe. “I have to leave.” She pushed aside garments until she found a curious outfit, a jacket and breeches, all in shades of red.
“Tell me where you’re going.”
“Tomorrow’s lessons are on the road. I’ll learn to talk with ibises and challenge monsters.”
“Yes, daughter.” Papa smiled. “But help me upstairs before you go.”
In the tower library, Papa instructed Odile on how to work the heavy mechanism that lowered the wappentier’s cage for feeding or recovering the eggs. The wappentier shuddered and its musty smell filled the room.
“When the time comes, search the highest peaks.” Papa unlocked the latch with a white quill and swung the door open. The hinges screeched. Or maybe the wappentier cried out.
Her heart trembled inside her ribs and she pulled at her father even as he stepped back.
The wappentier stretched its wings a moment before taking flight. It flew past them—its plumage, which she had always imagined would feel harsh and rough—was gentle like a whisper. The tower shook. Stones fell from the window’s sides and ledge as it broke through the wall.
Odile thought she heard screams below. Horses and men.
Her father hugged her then. He felt frail, as if his bones might be hollow, but he held tight a moment. She could not find the words to assure him that she’d return.
Outside the tower, she found the king’s carriage wallowed in the moat. The horses still lived, though they struggled to pull the carriage free. After years of a diet of game meat, the wappentier may have more hungered for rarer fare. There was no sign of a driver.