The Swan Maiden

by Heather Tomlinson

  Heat engulfed her.

  Limitless heat, unlike any she had experienced. Not the oppressive sun of a summer's day, which can be cheated by a patch of shade or a drink of cool water, nor the radiant blast of Na Patris's open oven, grinning with jolly ferocity around a mouthful of loaf-teeth. It was nothing like the fire that had eaten her swan skin and blistered her hands, a swift, voracious blaze that stank of charred feathers and blasted hope.

  No, this heat stripped her--of clothes, of flesh, of life and will--but Doucette could sense no malice in it. She was simply bathed in currents of elemental magic, which no mortal form could long withstand.

  In its way, the experience exalted. Dancing with lightning might feel the same, though no one she knew had survived to tell the tale. Not that she expected to, either. If Doucette had anticipated how much the Rassemblement would hurt, she didn't think she could have taken that final step. Ignorance was required. Or faith, perhaps, that this agony served a purpose, that some part of her would remain after the dissolution of all

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  she was and all she knew. But the future was out of her hands. Doucette burned and had no voice to scream.

  An eternity later, pain loosened its grip on her mind, though Doucette could make little sense of her surroundings. She could no longer feel her limbs and, again, would have screamed. If she had a mouth. Or breath.

  She couldn't move or see, smell or taste.

  Alive or dead?

  Her senses couldn't tell her. Trapped in a vast black emptiness, a tiny, determined kernel of her self remained. All she could do, it seemed, was listen.

  Lavena muttered, "Sweetness, eh? Now, dearie. A sorceress daren't be sweet!" The voice emitted a cackling laugh; invisible lips smacked together.

  A faint but steady clicking sound teased the edges of Doucette's awareness.

  "Mm, mm. Several fine qualities to choose from," Lavena said. "Kindness, modesty--and what good would that do me, I ask you? Perseverance, perhaps, but--no. You'll need that, and where's your pride? Not enough to speak of, girlie. Not nearly enough, and you an Aigleron!" Lavena sounded affronted. "Too soft by half, but wait--is that jealousy I taste?" Again, the cackle.

  "At least you've a young man worth scrapping over. Climbs nimble as a monkey, though he's great big feet that--mind the scapula!" The voice screeched, then subsided into a fretful murmur. "Wait for the leg bones, why don't you? No patience, these

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  young people. What, you've never seen a skull before? Step gently, eh? That's better. Ribs, ribs, ribs...."

  Formless, Doucette floated. She couldn't lift a finger to change events, but it appeared from Lavena's mutterings that Jaume had assembled Doucette's bones into a ladder and was busy climbing it.

  The grisly idea seemed far removed from her current state. Doucette drifted, lost in a sea of magic, until Lavena's attention captured hers once more.

  "Where was I? Oh, yes. Now, girlie," the husky voice said. "What about your memories?"

  The eerie tranquility evaporated as ghostly fingers poked and prodded Doucette's mind.

  The spirit picked through Doucette's past, shaking out her memories and inspecting them as Lady Sarpine might examine an old gown for flaws. The sensation was horrible, but Doucette could neither avoid it nor protest. She could only endure.

  "Pathetic," Lavena said. "Useless. This one's completely threadbare--why'd you keep it? Ah. What about this?"

  As a shining bit of thread catches a magpie's attention, the memory of Doucette's first flight as a swan snagged Lavena's interest. Doucette relived the rush of the wind against her skin, the terror of falling, the surge of elation as her wings bore her up.

  "Not bad. Not bad at all, but I've others like it. Hm. Your shepherd lad's reached the top." The voice sounded mildly surprised before it turned testy. "Put the bird in your shirt, idiot boy. Don't be climbing down one-handed. Not the jaw, don't hang on the--huh. Stronger than I expected. Again, an almost human amusement touched the inhuman voice.

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  "Well, dearie, I don't want your virtues, and your past doesn't interest me, so I believe I'll settle for the traditional payment. More than fair. Your young man's putting the ladder down in the--ah! Yes. I'll just take this one. You'll hardly miss it."

  Doucette heard a sharp cracking noise. The sound brought on an avalanche of sensation.

  Forearm, shin, breastbone, hipbone, backbone, thigh bone-- Doucette could feel each one distinctly, tumbling over the others to find its appointed slot. Muscles snapped into place. A lattice of veins wove through her body with dizzying speed. Her heart jumped and then beat strongly within its cage of ribs. Hair sprouted from her scalp, each strand vibrant with life. Slack lungs craved air, but when her mouth opened, a fiery liquid rushed in.

  Hot, hot, HOT! Inside and out, Doucette burned.

  Arms and legs thrashed, lifting Doucette's head above the surface of the pool. Jaume seized one of her flailing hands and hauled her out of the Cauldron. She sat down and doubled over with pain. Her cloak shimmered.

  Her dry cloak.

  Whatever boiled in Lavena's Cauldron, it wasn't water. "Doucette? Are you well? Speak to me!"

  Doucette tried to nod reassurance to Jaume's frantic questions. Slowly, the fiery heat receded, leaving her overwhelmed with sensation. Every part of her skin tingled, as if she had been rubbed all over with fresh snow or hot oil. Her right foot, especially, throbbed urgent warning. She looked at her legs, extended in front of her. Her shoes had disappeared; her feet glowed rosy pink in the Cauldron's strange light.

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  Jaume noticed at the same instant. His face darkened with anger. "Your toe!"

  Dimpled skin covered the spot where her smallest toe had been. Doucette's stomach turned over; she turned aside and retched. Mercifully, nothing came up. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and made herself answer calmly. "Lavena's price," she said. "A toe is minor, compared to what she could have taken."

  "What?"

  "Truly, Jaume," Doucette insisted, before he could offend the spirit. "It could have been much worse. And you? Did you get the Aigleron?

  "Oh, aye." Visibly, he reined in his anger. He patted his hat. "It's safe."

  Doucette bowed over her knees with relief. The Rassemblement had worked! Jaume had the Aigleron, and Doucette hadn't died or lost an arm, her mind, or her memories, only a toe. As for her magic, time would tell. At the moment, she felt alive all over, if rather too exposed, like an earthworm yanked wriggling from its den. "Thank you, Lavena."

  A distant, fading cackle answered her.

  When Doucette tried to stand, her legs wouldn't hold her. She smiled crookedly at Jaume. "I'm afraid you'll have to carry both me and the lamp."

  Willing arms scooped up her limp body. "Gladly," Jaume said.

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  Chapter Twenty-two

  ***

  L ight speared Doucette's eyes. She closed them tight and burrowed under the bedclothes. Her head felt stuffed with a greasy wool that muffled her very thoughts.

  Dark, it had been dark, she remembered, and frightening, but Jaume carried her. In his arms, she was safe....

  "Wake up, Doucette," Azelais said. "It's almost dawn."

  "Leave her be," Cecilia said. "After what Mother did to her swan skin--"

  "Dreadful." Azelais's voice dropped. "But she might as well see the end of this ridiculous business."

  "Hush," Cecilia said more sternly.

  Azelais hushed. Doucette gave up trying to open her eyes or string two thoughts together and gratefully sank back into sleep.

  When she opened her eyes again, Doucette blinked in surprise. She felt so new! Refreshed, restored, no pain anywhere. Even her hair felt alive, swirling over her shoulders like quicksilver. Her bare skin reported smooth sheets that smelled of lavender water under the slight rasp of a wool blanket. She could feel the warmth of individual sunbeams dancing along the foot that stuck out from under the bedclothes. She wiggled her outstretched toes: on
e, two, three, four.

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  In an instant, she remembered it all. The cavern, the Cauldron, the spirit.

  Four toes.

  Doucette pulled her maimed foot inside the covers. It had happened, the Rassemblement. It was real. Lavena had taken her payment. What had she given in return?

  Doucette closed her eyes and lay still, exploring the unfamiliar sensations that filled her. Once, when she put on her swan skin, the magic had tingled along her skin. Now it flowed inside her. With every breath, she sensed it surging through her veins, its rhythm as steady as the sea.

  With power this strong, she could sculpt mountains, level cities, shift the stars in the heavens. She no longer needed a wand or a swan skin to work the High Arts. Infused with sorcery, her body was a wand.

  At least that's how it felt. Could she translate this impression into action?

  Doucette laid her hand over a bolster.

  Be thou silk covered, dappled as my swan feathers, as crackling frost, as veined marble.

  Magic rushed through her fingers, draining her strength as it Transformed the pillowcase. With heroic effort, Doucette raised her head. Under her fingers, the plain linen became white silk, shot through with silver threads.

  Overcome by weakness, she closed her eyes and surrendered

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  once more to darkness. When she woke again, the chamber was awash in late afternoon's golden light.

  Doucette stroked the Transformed silk bolster, then stared at the backs of her hands. The bandages had disappeared. Doucette turned her hands over. Fresh new skin wrapped her palms where the burned patches had been. She extended her fingers, then let her hands fall on the coverlet.

  How strange. Magic roared within her, refreshing her mind and her senses, but it left her body as helpless as an infant. Doucette braced herself against the headboard and struggled to sit up.

  Remade.

  She could almost hear Lavena clucking. "What did you expect from new bones, muscles, blood, and all? Young people these days! No patience. If I had a lovely new body, I'd give it some time. I would, indeed."

  In the end, Doucette was content to sit and follow the spirit's imagined advice. She watched bars of sunlight slant ever more steeply across the walls until hunger forced her out of bed. She could smell the food on the table by the window: a heel of crusty bread and roasted onion salad. Humble fare, but a treat to her heightened senses. The roasted onion tasted delicious mixed with fruity olive oil and tart vinegar. Na Patris had outdone herself, Doucette thought, mopping up the last bit of savory juice with her bread.

  After eating, Doucette felt well enough to wash her face. She put on a clean shift and combed her hair, resting between strokes. The effort of moving sapped what little strength she had, though her mind raced, defying her body's weakness.

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  What had happened to Jaume while she slept the day away?

  Her newly keen ears heard the rapid tap-tap of feet climbing the stairs long before the bedchamber door burst open and Azelais and Cecilia dashed in, swan skins fluttering.

  "Hurry," Cecilia said. "Father wants you."

  Azelais's eyebrows were drawn over her brow in a single line. "You're a disgrace to our name."

  "Be quiet, Azelais," Cecilia snapped. "Can't you think of anyone but yourself?"

  Doucette's pulse drummed in her throat. Her sisters' expressions told her that Jaume had succeeded with the golden bird. If he had been set a different task and failed, Cecilia wouldn't look so concerned, or Azelais so angry. Doucette's fingers lost their grip on the comb, which clattered onto the table. She eyed it and hoped this weakness would pass. "Hand me that pink gown, would you, Cecilia?"

  "No time." Cecilia drew her wand from her sleeve. "Everybody's waiting. Father's arranged a final test. If your shepherd wants you so badly, he'll have to choose you."

  "What?" Doucette braced her hands flat on the table. "Another test? Unfair!"

  "Fair?" Azelais scoffed. "Someone helped him with the first three. Are you afraid that the man can't manage the simplest one on his own?"

  "No," Doucette said. "But--"

  Cecilia interrupted her. "By your leave, Sister?"

  Doucette's hair tumbled over her shoulders as she shook her head, but Cecilia was looking at Azelais.

  Azelais shrugged. "Oh, very well."

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  Cecilia murmured a few words and tapped Azelais with her wand.

  Doucette sucked in a breath as the spell took hold. Their oldest sister's face and form wavered, as if seen under water, and then became a mirror image of Cecilia's.

  From the tips of their leather shoes to their azure gowns, fair hair, blue eyes, and complacent expressions, the two young women were identical. The second one spoke in Azelais's voice. "You vain thing, Cecilia. However can you breathe with your gown laced so tightly?"

  "You next." Cecilia's wand tapped Doucette's shoulder.

  The spell sizzled over her skin, but a swift current of Doucette's own magic swept out to repel it. With a loud crackling noise and a shower of sparks, the two spells clashed.

  Her sisters jumped back in alarm. A little dizzy herself, Doucette swayed until she could sit upright.

  The true Cecilia stared accusingly at an unchanged Doucette and then at her wand. "What happened?"

  "You bungled it, Sister. Lost your focus," the other Cecilia said in Azelais's voice. "There's a reason I'm Tante's heir. Strength of mind, remember?"

  "No!" The wand tapped Doucette's shoulder again. As before, the spell failed spectacularly.

  One Cecilia looked stupefied, the other impatient.

  "I told you we should do it my way." Muttering, Cecilia-Azelais took the wand and tapped first her own shoulder, then the real Cecilia's.

  Doucette tasted the magic in the air as a cloud of white smoke enveloped her sisters. When it dissipated, Doucette recoiled. Both

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  of her sisters now looked like her! Each one wore her features, her plain shift, bare feet, and trailing hair.

  "Not bad, I think."

  Hearing Azelais's voice issue from her own face made Doucette feel queasy.

  "But look at the hair, Azelais," Doucette-Cecilia said. "Ours isn't nearly as pretty. Really, I don't know how you won that circlet you're so proud of. Heir or no, clarity of vision was every your weakness."

  "Mm." Doucette-Azelais tapped her lips just like Tante Mahalt. Gray eyes studied Doucette's head with a disconcerting coolness. "I grant you're right this time, Cecilia." Doucette-Azelais stroked her own head with the wand until her hair gleamed with light and then did the same for Doucette-Cecilia. "What did you do, Sister? It's so shiny, like pearl."

  "I combed it," Doucette said blandly, but she was thinking of Tante Mahalt's iridescent hair. Was this, too, an effect of the Rassemblement? Or just Lavena's little joke?

  Doucette-Cecilia pouted. "You could give us decent gowns."

  Doucette-Azelais sighed with exasperation and raised her wand again.

  Before the wand could descend, Doucette stood up, letting the hem of her shift fall over her bare feet. "You said to hurry. We'll go as we are." Their father's game seemed clear enough, but more than one could play it. She walked to the open door and started down the stairs, hoping neither of her sisters would notice how unsteady her steps were.

  "I am not facing the court dressed in a shift!" Cecilia's voice rose shrill behind her. "Barefoot, my hair unbound like a child's!"

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  "Don't worry. They'll think we're her," Doucette-Azelais said.

  "Fine," Doucette-Cecilia said. "Then stop dawdling, Doucette. Here, Azelais. You take her other arm."

  Doucette's sisters hurried her down the stairs between them, and on through the castle's empty corridors. She was glad of their unwitting support. Without it, she feared her legs might buckle and drop her to the floor.

  They stopped before the closed doors of the feast hall. Doucette-Azelais patted her hair, as if she missed the circlet t
hat normally rested there.

  "Hide the wand.'" Doucette-Cecilia whispered.

  Doucette-Azelais glanced down the empty corridor before tucking the wand behind a wall hanging. She beat her fist against one of the doors and returned to Doucette's side.

  To Doucette's sensitive ears, the silence had a distinctly menacing quality.

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  Chapter Twenty-three

  ***

  T he doors swung wide. Inside, courtiers, servants, and townsfolk greeted the trio of barely dressed Doucettes with a collective exhalation of astonishment.

  The young women walked through the open doors and straight through the crowded feast hall to the high table.

  Doucette's heart leaped to see Jaume standing to one side of the dais, his hat in his hand.

  Tucked in the crook of his other arm, a golden bird glowed in the candlelight. About the size of a dove, it had a raptor's beak and crest, though the long, graceful neck curled over a swan's plumage. Doucette thought magic must have made it, for no mortal goldsmith could have worked in such perfect detail. The eyes, two black crystals, glittered.

  In contrast to the wonderful bird and the courtiers' habitual finery, the shepherd's stained, ripped clothes bore silent witness to his three days of labor. Despite its tired lines, however, Jaume's handsome face showed no signs of the weakness that had afflicted Doucette since her immersion in Lavena's Cauldron. His eyes narrowed at the sight of three identical girls advancing toward him, but he gave no sign of dismay.

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  Doucette's heart beat fast. He would know her, wouldn't he? Jaume had seen her as no one else had, down to her very bones. After all they had endured together, she surely had nothing to fear. Pride strengthened her trembling legs and carried her to stand with her sisters before the dais.