Heiresses of Russ 2011

by JoSelle Vanderhooft

  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 as 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 countryside 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 lay 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 f
ingers.”

  “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.

  Her thoughts held rara lingua with a certainty that surprised her. As she envisioned 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.

  She waded into the water, empty of any swans, she noticed. The carriage door hung ajar. Inside was empty. As she led the horses to land, Odile looked up in the sky and did not see the wappentier. It must no longer be starved. She hoped the king was still down in the cellar smashing eggs.

  She looked back at the tower and thought she saw for a moment her father staring down from the ruined window. She told herself there might be another day for books and fathers. Perhaps even swans. Then she stepped up to the driver’s seat and took hold of the reins and chose to take the road.

  •

  The Lady Who Plucked Red Flowers beneath the Queen’s Window

  Rachel Swirsky

  My story should have ended on the day I died. Instead, it began there.

  Sun pounded on my back as I rode through the Mountains where the Sun Rests. My horse’s hooves beat in syncopation with those of the donkey that trotted in our shadow. The queen’s midget Kyan turned his head toward me, sweat dripping down the red-and-blue protections painted across his malformed brow.

  “Shouldn’t…we…stop?” he panted.

  Sunlight shone red across the craggy limestone cliffs. A bold eastern wind carried the scent of mountain blossoms. I pointed to a place where two large stones leaned across a narrow outcropping.

  “There,” I said, prodding my horse to go faster before Kyan could answer. He grunted and cursed at his donkey for falling behind.

  I hated Kyan, and he hated me. But Queen Rayneh had ordered us to ride reconnaissance together, and we obeyed, out of love for her and for the Land of Flowered Hills.

  We dismounted at the place I had indicated. There, between the mountain peaks, we could watch the enemy’s forces in the valley below without being observed. The raiders spread out across the meadow below like ants on a rich meal. Their women’s camp lay behind the main troops, a small dark blur. Even the smoke rising from their women’s fires seemed timid. I scowled.

  “Go out between the rocks,” I directed Kyan. “Move as close to the edge as you can.”

  Kyan made a mocking gesture of deference. “As you wish, Great Lady,” he sneered, swinging his twisted legs off the donkey. Shamans’ bundles of stones and seeds, tied with twine, rattled at his ankles.

  I refused to let his pretensions ignite my temper. “Watch the valley,” I instructed. “I will take the vision of their camp from your mind and send it to the Queen’s scrying pool. Be sure to keep still.”

  The midget edged toward the rocks, his eyes shifting back and forth as if he expected to encounter raiders up here in the mountains, in the Queen’s dominion. I found myself amused and disgusted by how little provocation it took to reveal the midget’s true, craven nature. At home in the Queen’s castle, he strutted abo
ut, pompous and patronizing. He was like many birth-twisted men, arrogant in the limited magic to which his deformities gave him access. Rumors suggested that he imagined himself worthy enough to be in love with the Queen. I wondered what he thought of the men below. Did he daydream about them conquering the Land? Did he think they’d make him powerful, that they’d put weapons in his twisted hands and let him strut among their ranks?

  “Is your view clear?” I asked.

  “It is.”

  I closed my eyes and saw, as he saw, the panorama of the valley below. I held his sight in my mind, and turned toward the eastern wind which carries the perfect expression of magic—flight—on its invisible eddies. I envisioned the battlefield unfurling before me like a scroll rolling out across a marble floor. With low, dissonant notes, I showed the image how to transform itself for my purposes. I taught it how to be length and width without depth, and how to be strokes of color and light reflected in water. When it knew these things, I sang the image into the water of the Queen’s scrying pool.

  Suddenly—too soon—the vision vanished from my inner eye. Something whistled through the air. I turned. Pain struck my chest like thunder.

  I cried out. Kyan’s bundles of seeds and stones rattled above me. My vision blurred red. Why was the midget near me? He should have been on the outcropping.

  “You traitor!” I shouted. “How did the raiders find us?”

  I writhed blindly on the ground, struggling to grab Kyan’s legs. The midget caught my wrists. Weak with pain, I could not break free.

  “Hold still,” he said. “You’re driving the arrow deeper.”

  “Let me go, you craven dwarf.”

  “I’m no traitor. This is woman’s magic. Feel the arrow shaft.”

  Kyan guided my hand upward to touch the arrow buried in my chest. Through the pain, I felt the softness of one of the Queen’s roc feathers. It was particularly rare and valuable, the length of my arm.

  I let myself fall slack against the rock. “Woman’s magic,” I echoed, softly. “The Queen is betrayed. The Land is betrayed.”