The Swan Maiden

by Heather Tomlinson

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  her swan skin and wand, she would never fly again, nor possess the means to call her life her own.

  Doucette sobbed in renewed anguish.

  Her aunt had warned them. A sorceress had enemies, she had said. Blinded by love, Doucette had never suspected her own mother would lead the attack.

  Choking on the bitter taste of betrayal, Doucette shook tear-wet hair from her face. She had to get out of this chamber before some gossiping attendant found her.

  Her hands were too blistered to use, so she shrugged awkwardly into her shift. The effort made her light-headed with pain. When she couldn't manage the gown's sleeves or lacing unaided, she draped it over her shoulders in a makeshift cloak and shuffled off to the kitchen, her burned hands extended like a ghost's. She had given Jaume's pot of salve to Na Patris; perhaps a little remained.

  After all, Doucette thought dully, a shepherd's healing magic was the best she could hope for, since the High Arts were barred to her forever.

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  Chapter Twenty-one

  ***

  D istantly aware of the laughter and music drifting from the feast hall, Doucette huddled in a corner of the busy kitchen. Her burned hands ached; her throat felt raw from crying. But within her pain and confusion, a dreadful resolve was forming.

  "Stew, little lady?" Na Patris set a bowl on Doucette's bench, next to other dishes full of untouched food.

  "Thank you," Doucette said, as she had before. She made no move to pick up the spoon.

  The baker's freckled face clouded with concern. "Eat," she urged, before the sound of raised voices called her away.

  Doucette's thoughts turned inward once more. All evening, she had tried to think of a different way out. For herself, and for Jaume. However much it frightened her, she had seen but one possibility.

  The Rassemblement.

  If the ritual succeeded, Doucette would gain a new source of magic, as Tante Mahalt had done. Otherwise...

  Nausea rose in a sour wave.

  Doucette swallowed hard. Even if her beloved agreed to help, she might not survive the attempt. A thousand ways to

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  fail, Tante Mahalt had said. The one consolation was that she and Jaume had a better chance together than either had alone.

  "Tea?" Na Patris knelt beside her. "Drink, Lady Doucette. I'll hold the cup."

  Doucette obediently sipped the steaming liquid, then spoke softly to the baker. "Jaume's staying at your house in town, Na Patris?"

  The baker lowered the cup and glanced around the kitchen. Servers rushed in and out with their laden trays; Anfos whistled cheerfully over the soup pots. Nobody was paying attention to their quiet conversation. "Yes."

  "Will you give him a message? He must meet me late tonight, outside the caves."

  "No, no. Whatever are you thinking?"

  With a touch of her bandaged hand, Doucette stilled the woman's protest. "His life is in danger."

  Na Patris hesitated. "You'll keep him safe?"

  "I'll try," Doucette answered. "Please, will you tell him?"

  "Spirit business, is it?" When Doucette didn't reply, the baker frowned. "I will," she said at last. "But if you intend to tramp around in nasty damp caves, you'll have some stew first, so help me. And a bite of bread with Toumas's good honey, to keep your strength up."

  "Thank you, Na Patris."

  The baker sighed. "You're welcome, little lady."

  Under a sliver of moon, the wind whispered through the olive trees and tossed the lavender's purple caps. Behind the terrace

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  wall, the hole in the hillside made a dark, still place in the night's restless shadows.

  Crouching on the damp ground, Doucette pulled the cloak over her shoulders with the tips of her bandaged fingers. Frightened thoughts chased themselves like rats trapped in the castle's deepest cellar.

  She could still change her mind.

  All she had to do was retrace her steps back through the orchard, run across the gardens, and steal up the tower steps to her room. Na Patris would keep silent about the message she had been asked to give her husband's cousin.

  Who would know? Not Doucette's parents. Not Azelais or Cecilia, sleeping soundly in the tower chamber.

  Jaume might wonder, but he would never reproach her.

  The thought was what kept her there, waiting. Only Doucette would know she had missed her best chance--her only chance-- to regain the magic her mother had stolen. If the Rassemblement succeeded, she could help Jaume accomplish the comte's third task. Once victorious, they could leave Beloc for good.

  The breeze played through Doucette's hair, bringing her the smell of Jaume before the sight of him. The familiar combination of wool and wood smoke, tinged with the sharp scent of bramble sap and rich wet earth, comforted her.

  She mustn't think about what would happen to him, to both of them, if she failed. She must remember her training and fix her attention on the task at hand.

  Jaume sheltered a small oil lamp with his hat. The wide brim directed light into his face, illuminating the concern in his dark eyes. "Doucette?"

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  Doucette made her voice strong and welcoming. 'Na Patris said you made a lovely pond!"

  "Oh, aye," he said. "Built a wall, then changed the spade's spell, like you showed me. It dug in a soggy spot and found a spring, quick as quick. Lord Pascau took it fine, but Lady Sarpine didn't seem best pleased."

  "No." Doucette's confident façade crumbled. "She's furious."

  "I'm sorry." He set down the lamp and took her wrist gently, mindful of the bandages. "What happened?"

  "Yours are worse." She turned his hand to the lamplight, revealing cracked and bloody nails, flaps of skin where blisters had formed and broken.

  "Sores will heal, give it a day or two," he said. "What--"

  "I must ask you a favor," Doucette interrupted him. "But if you don't want to go on with the last trial, Father said he had offered you a reward."

  "To give you up?" Jaume shook his head. "No."

  "Good." Doucette took a steadying breath. "I asked you here because I've discovered tomorrow's task. It can't be done without my help. In return, I need yours."

  Jaume touched her fingers to his lips. "Command me."

  "It will be difficult," she warned.

  "I don't mind hard work."

  "Not like the others. You'll have to build a ladder of my bones."

  "Nay, love." Jaume spun her into his arms. "I'll take no part in such an ill deed."

  "You must," Doucette said unhappily, and eased out of his embrace. "From what Mother let slip after she--after we spoke

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  earlier--my father is going to demand you bring him the hidden treasure of Beloc."

  He touched her hair, lightly. "You are the hidden treasure of Beloc."

  "Please, don't tease me," Doucette said. "The Aigleron is so well guarded that only a family member can find it. I'm sure to be shut in my room again tomorrow. If you're to bring back the treasure, it must be done before dawn."

  Jaume rubbed his chin. "We seek a crown, then? A sword? A strongbox?"

  "The magical golden bird our family's named for," Doucette said. "I've never seen it, but there are stories. Anyway, the Aigleron's nest sits at the top of a marble pillar, deep underground."

  "Doesn't sound too difficult," Jaume said.

  Doucette finished. "On the far side of Lavena's Cauldron."

  "Lavena's Cauldron?"

  "She's a spirit. There's a way we can ask for her help."

  Jaume looked skeptical. "Better explain this from the beginning, my heart."

  Doucette thought of Tante Mahalt, limping proudly across her courtyard, and chose her words with care. "This ritual--the Rassemblement--may change me. I hope it will change me."

  "Change?" Jaume said. "How?"

  "Rassemblement means remaking, with magic." In a rush, Doucette explained the ritual.

  "What?" Disgust roughened Jaume's voic
e. "Why would you risk such a thing? What if the spirit takes your eyes or your tongue?

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  "Mother burned my swan skin and my wand to punish me, to stop me from helping you, to keep me a prisoner. Only the Rassemblement can return the magic I lost." Doucette held out her bandaged hands. "Please. You promised once that if I were in trouble, I could ask you."

  "It's that important? The magic."

  "Yes," Doucette said.

  After a long silence, Jaume nodded. "Lead on, then. I can't refuse you."

  "Thank you," Doucette said quietly. She pointed to the hole in the hillside. "We'll go in here. Mind your head. The entry's low." Gathering all her courage, she pulled her cloak over her hair and crawled into the earthen tunnel. After a short distance traversed on her knees, the rock above her head opened into a high, vaulted space. She stood.

  Behind her, Jaume held up the lamp. Though its light made but a small impression on the vast darkness, it showed the cave walls continuing downward, an arm's breadth apart on either side of them. "Can't get lost in this bit," Jaume said. He stamped his feet and coughed at the acrid odor that filled the cool air.

  Doucette's eyes filled with tears from the pungent smell left behind by generations of bats. "At least they're out for the night," she said. "By day, we'd have a thousand furry little beasts hanging over our heads."

  Jaume held his nose closed. "Lead on."

  After twisting downward in a loose spiral, the close-set walls of the cave widened, only to pinch off into two tunnels. Doucette headed for the rightmost one, but stopped at the tunnel's mouth.

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  While Jaume looked on, she ran her hands along the rock until she found an iron hook set near the ground.

  "It's still here," Doucette said in relief

  "You've been to this place before?"

  "As a child. Mother forbade it, of course," Doucette admitted, "but that never stopped Azelais and Cecilia. I'd come in after them and have to find my way back alone." Pulling a fat ball of thread from under her cloak, she tied the free end around the hook and started down the tunnel.

  It twisted like a snake shedding its skin. A section would curl back in on itself, then split into two, or three, or ten. Though the stone passages took on a dreamy sameness, Doucette was careful to choose always the downward path. She let the thread play out behind her, watching to be sure it didn't snag and break on the uneven floor.

  Then the narrow way opened onto a fantastic landscape. Doucette stopped and Jaume let out a low whistle.

  Pillars of pale stone rose toward the roof of a huge cavern. More columns hung down without touching the floor.

  As a child, the place had reminded her of a giant, fanged mouth. Time had not improved its appearance. She walked more slowly here, warning Jaume of the pits--some filled with water, others deep and empty--waiting between the pillars.

  By the time they reached the cavern's far wall, Doucette had come to the end of her thread. She planted it under a loose stone and turned to the rough walls that arched over their heads. "We need to find the entrance. In a crevice, maybe? It may not look like much."

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  Jaume raised the light and paced in a slow circle around her. He ran his free hand over the stone until a patch of deeper shadow swallowed his arm to the elbow. "Here?" he said.

  "Let's try it. Will you fit through?"

  "Do my best." Jaume shrugged his broad shoulders and handed her the lamp. "You carry the light."

  "I'll go first," Doucette said. "If Lavena's waiting--" She couldn't finish the thought.

  Shielding the precious lamp with one hand, she eased sideways into the crevice. The stone caught at her cloak and snagged her hair. Doucette pulled herself free with a jerk. They'd seen nothing living in the caves, but that didn't stop her mind from picturing blind spiders spinning webs to trap them, or many-legged scuttling creatures armed with pincers and teeth, waiting just outside the lamplight's reach.

  "Jaume?" Her voice sounded small and frightened.

  He grunted. "Coming, love."

  Doucette swallowed against the stale dryness in her mouth and forced her legs to keep moving.

  They emerged from the narrow cleft to find themselves standing at the bottom of a cylindrical shaft. Like a well, Doucette thought, except that instead of a circle of daylight, darkness pressed on their heads. She concentrated on breathing slowly and steadily. The air had a metallic, musty tang to it.

  Jaume sniffed. "Old Lavena's cooking bad eggs down here?"

  "Jaume!" Doucette said, half amused, half appalled at his irreverence. "A spirit's home is no place for jokes."

  "No?" He stretched his shoulders and settled his hat more securely on his head. "I expected the place to be paved with gold

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  and jewels. It's very plain. And the marble pillar with the nest? Oh. I see it, by the bath."

  Doucette's breath caught. "It's not a bath. That's Lavena's Cauldron."

  "Looks like a bath," Jaume said. "Right size, right shape, steaming hot. Nice stonework, that."

  "Jaume. She might be listening." Doucette's stomach churned with apprehension.

  "Your pardon. Whistling against the dark is all." Jaume cupped the side of her face with his hand. "You don't have to go through with this, love. I've swum in scalding springs, climbed a tree or two. I'll manage the Cauldron and the pillar."

  Touched by his care, Doucette turned her head so her lips brushed his fingers, then pulled away as a different awareness rippled across her skin. Jaume sensed it, too; she felt his body tense.

  A presence. Watching them.

  Doucette lifted the lamp high, illuminating steps that led down into the steaming pool. Amber mist rose from its surface. Underneath, the bubbling liquid might be water, or molten stone, or some other substance altogether.

  Whatever it was, it looked hot. Dangerously hot. Was she mad, to think of consigning herself to it? Doucette's burned hands throbbed in their bandages. Her body clenched with the will to run, but her mind checked it.

  She had spent her childhood fleeing to one hidey-hole or another, smarting from her sisters' tricks. Afraid to confront her parents with her newfound swan skin, she had escaped to her aunt's castle but failed to win the crown. She had even flown from Jaume, due to a misunderstanding as much her fault as his.

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  This time, she would finish what she had begun. And though Doucette's legs trembled with the urge to run, she didn't. After putting herself and Jaume at Lavena's mercy, she refused to leave without attempting the Rassemblement.

  Doucette lowered her head and addressed the unseen depths. "Please, Lavena," she said, her voice quavering more than she liked, "I have come to be remade. By your grace, build of my bones a ladder, so that my companion may reach the top of the pillar and take the bird he finds there."

  "A ladder?"

  The ancient, husky voice might have condensed from the steam or issued from the rock. Only an aggrieved note hinted at the invisible speaker's lost humanity.

  "Young people these days. All they want is ladders and keys, ladders and keys. Why not a nice harp, eh? Delicate bones like yours would make a fine harp, girlie."

  Terror chilled Doucette's skin. Her lips felt so numb, she was surprised she could shape the proper words. "A ladder, Lavena, of your kindness."

  "Oh, I suppose." The voice took on a wheedling, almost hungry note. "You'll pay for it?"

  Doucette spoke quickly, before she could change her mind. "Yes."

  "And your companion? He knows what to do?"

  Beside her, Jaume stiffened. He could refuse, Doucette knew. She could hardly bear to imagine what the Rassemblement would require of them both. No blame to Jaume if he decided the reward not worth the price.

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  Light as a bird's wing, Jaume's kiss graced Doucette's cheek. He bowed in the direction of the pool. "Aye, and it please you, Lady."

  The hoarse voice cackled. "Nice manners, for a rustic. Well, go on, girlie. We're waiti
ng."

  Doucette wanted to cling to Jaume's broad shoulders, longed for him to tell her it was all a mistake. She wished she could wake up safe in her bed and know the rasping voice, the dark cave, for a nightmare vision. But Jaume had not failed her. She would--she must--repay his trust with her own.

  She set down the lamp. Somehow, her shaking legs carried her forward, step by slow step. In the expectant silence, she had plenty of time to notice the stonework Jaume had admired. Large blocks fitted seamlessly together and were capped by such an elegantly curved molding that the whole needed no other decoration. In the lamplight, the stone glowed honey-gold, streaked with apricot and ocher. Like the materials that formed the castle walls, town buildings, and fountains above them, these slabs must have been chipped from the quarry across the ridge from the Château de l'Aire.

  Doucette spared an instant to wonder about the long-dead mason who had laid these stones so carefully, one on another. A master craftsman, her chastelaine's eye told her. Had he finished his work and lived to see the sky again, smell new grass and wood smoke, walk hand in hand with his sweetheart by the light of a harvest moon? Or had he perished in the endless dark?

  Steam curled over the toes of her shoes; she had reached the edge of the pool. She couldn't help looking over her shoulder. If

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  the ritual failed, at least she would carry with her a final memory of Jaume's dear face. His dark eyes held hers.

  "Courage, love," he whispered.

  She crossed her hands over her heart. Closing her eyes, Doucette started down the stairs. Her left foot found a shallow ledge; her right foot met nothing.

  Dragged down by the sudden weight of her sodden clothing, she plunged to the bottom of the pool. The Cauldron's boiling water closed over her head. If it was water, she thought wildly.