“Goodbye,” Frain muttered, and he hugged me, hard. I felt his face against my own and I felt tears—my own. He turned away. I stopped him with a touch, but he would not face me again, only half turned toward me.
“Dair, I have to go!” The words were choked. Tears on his face, too.
I know. Frain, if you should ever see Trevyn—in this world or another—
He looked at me then, eager, smiling. “I will go to him straightway. What would you like me to tell him?”
Just say that—I am well.
“I’ll tell him far more than that.”
He embraced me once more, touched my hand. Then he turned and, with scarcely a ripple, waded into the lake.
It did not take him. I could see quite clearly that it had no power over him at all. He waded in until the water was up to his head and the swan swam a little way ahead of him, and then he gave himself to the lake, he disappeared. I watched for long moments, scarcely daring to blink, sure I would see him again but frightened for him as well—
And the water reached up, the white reflection in the lake reached up and embraced the swan, and the swan lifted its wings with a shout of exultation, crippled no longer. It was black no longer, either, it was white, sea-foam white, lotuspetal white, with a sort of golden sheen about it, an aureole, and it took wing, it soared. It sang—I had never known Frain to sing, but I knew it was he, even so, and the song was one of victory and joy. Triumph, triumph, swan, windmaster, winging, singing through the sky.… The swan flew once over my head, calling a clear greeting, and then it lifted like thistleseed over the westward mountains, sang yet again and was gone. Watching, I found that I was weeping and singing aloud for love and loneliness—howling, if you will. I was a wolf, after all.
Laifrita thae, Frain. Sweet peace to thee. Fly away.
I padded off through the mountains with the fern seed held in my mouth. I passed out of Vale into the lands beyond and planted seed when the mood took me. Sometimes I dreamed of Frain or of Trevyn, and the dreams comforted me.
Epilogue
On a golden day when summer was thinking of autumn, King Trevyn of Isle rode homeward toward Laueroc from Rodsen. As he rode a great white swan whistled overhead, a swan with an aureate glow that reminded him of certain unaccountable legends he had lately heard, the most splendid of swans. Seeing him, it circled back. Alberic, it greeted him by his elfin name.
“Lonn D’Aeric,” said Trevyn with a wondering smile. “Swan Lord.” He got down from his horse to meet an equal, and the creature landed in the grass beside him.
“So the final age is truly at hand,” Trevyn murmured. “Peace passing into eternity—”
Dair asked me to tender you his greeting, the swan said.
“Frain!” Trevyn exclaimed.
Folk used to call me by that name. I scarcely remember.… The swan arched his lovely neck. But I remember Dair. He is—Even the Old Language would not encompass what Lonn D’Aeric felt. He bowed his graceful head in a sort of homage.
He is a marvel beyond belief, my lord.
“So you came to love him at last,” said Trevyn softly.
I learned to love him, and all else followed.
“I can scarcely believe that you are really come,” Trevyn said in a hushed voice. “All striving drawing to an end, yours and everyone’s, soon to be done for all time.… What is for you now, Lonn D’Aeric?”
The wide dim sea and that western land—what is its name?
“Elwestrand.”
They talked for a while longer, of Dair wandering with the seed, of the sea—Lonn D’Aeric longed for the sea—of the turn of the great tide and the dreams of the One which were nearing consummation. When the stars came out the swan looked skyward and spread his wings.
“It is a long flight,” said Trevyn. “You will be well?”
How can I be otherwise?
He soared off, and Trevyn stood looking after.
Some days later Trevyn had a dream of two swans who met on the bosom of the sea.
It was calm. They floated easily on the dark and sparkling tide, face to face. One swan seemed to wear a crown of golden light; the other shimmered silver where the water jeweled her. They gazed at each other, then dipped their bills to the water, long necks highly arched, drifting closer together; then they raised their heads. Snowy breasts met. Heads came softly together. The necks of the swans formed the twin halves of a fair and perfect white heart.
And then one swan shouted aloud in joy and victory. He spread his great wings, shining and white as foam, raising his body from the water, golden light glinting from his highstretched head, surging and yearning skyward, singing. The triumph song—the other swan joined him, spreading wings, crying joy to the sky. Triumph, triumph, raise thy pinions, Swan Lord skimming, winging high.… They flew. Wingtip to wingtip they flew, westward across the endless water, into sunset light, and the sun was a golden swan that welcomed them into its embrace. Then it sank, and all disappeared into amethyst twilight.
Eastward at the hills of morning
Sunswan lifts his wings of light
Golden golden glory glory
Lifts his wings of light
Triumph, triumph, raise thy pinions
Sunswan golden, blazing bright,
Triumph, triumph, swan, skymaster,
Lift thy flame in flight.
Then winging winging wheeling singing
Skimming triumph up the sky
And all the birds of nesting earth
Beneath his gold wings lie
Comfort, comfort, spread thy pinions,
Sunswan soaring zenith high,
Comfort.… Down to night’s dominion
Gliding through the cyan sky.
Westward at the deeps of evening
Sunswan dips his wings of fire
Fills the white embrace of twilight
Comfort comfort wings of fire
Quenching long desire of ages
Quenching long desire.
About the Author
Nancy Springer has passed the fifty-book milestone with novels for adults, young adults, and children, in genres including mythic fantasy, contemporary fiction, magic realism, horror, and mystery—although she did not realize she wrote mystery until she won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America two years in succession. Born in Montclair, New Jersey, Springer moved with her family to Gettysburg, of Civil War fame, when she was thirteen. She spent the next forty-six years in Pennsylvania, raising two children (Jonathan and Nora), writing, horseback riding, fishing, and bird-watching. In 2007 she surprised her friends and herself by moving with her second husband to an isolated area of the Florida Panhandle where the bird-watching is spectacular, and where, when fishing, she occasionally catches an alligator.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1983 by Nancy Springer
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-4532-4836-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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The Golden Swan Page 18