A Throne of Swans

by Katharine

  Under the moonlight, his skin shines like marble. I try to keep my eyes fixed on his face. ‘My back … it’s very scarred, from the attack –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Perhaps he sees that my hands are shaking, because he walks behind me and reaches around to the clasps of my robe. ‘May I?’

  I can’t speak, but I nod and close my eyes, until I feel the fabric lift from my shoulders. The cool night air brushes my body.

  ‘There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Still behind me, Siegfried passes me the vial. ‘That’s one dose. Drink it all.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘And then the potion will do its work.’

  Quickly, so I can’t change my mind, I lift the vial to my lips and tip my head back. The potion is bitter and earthy. I swallow it in one draft, trying not to breathe, and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Siegfried takes the empty bottle. And then –

  And then, I feel as if a fire has ignited inside me. It’s like the warmth that comes with wine, but far more potent: it penetrates my core and pounds through my veins and seems to spill outward from my skin, enveloping me, lifting me up. Perhaps I stumble, because I feel Siegfried’s hands on my arms, his breath on my neck.

  ‘Steady, Aderyn.’ His voice is soothing. ‘There’s really nothing to fear. The elixir will simply compel you to be what you were born to be.’

  I take a slow, deep breath, and then another, and then –

  A brief, far-off echo of pain and terror, as the moment of transition comes upon me. Too far off to disturb me, detached as I am, pinned in the warm embrace of the potion. A far quicker transition than I remember when I initiated the process myself: rapid – breathless – a sudden lengthening of arms and lightening of bones and eruption of feathers through skin – a shift of balance, a falling –

  An instant of panicked struggle against wind and water as some memory lodged deep within my muscles seizes control –

  I’m flying. My human mind – submerged, looking out from eyes that have become alien through disuse – knows that I am flying. I feel my wings, beating away the air, lifting me higher. I recognise the twisting streets of the city and the dark waters of the fjord spread below me. There ahead of me is a large white swan, moonlit against the night sky: Siegfried. I hear his voice in my head and my heart races with the jolt of remembrance. How could I have forgotten the secret, speechless communication of flight? But I obey Siegfried’s directions, I follow him, without any act of will, with no conscious control over my actions.

  We soar above the Citadel, my wings seeking out the air currents, sweeping wide over the fjord before turning back towards the city. The landing platform, with its long, bright patch of water, is beneath us, and Siegfried is leading me down …

  Water beneath me, and my wings folding. Siegfried, already back in human form, is stepping onto the grass that covers the rest of the landing platform. A hooded servant hurries forward, holding out a robe. Siegfried shrugs himself into it and takes another.

  ‘Come, Aderyn.’ I glide towards him. The leather pouch with the antidote is still hanging from his neck. He tips cold liquid down my throat, and as its chill spreads through me, my body shudders painfully back into human form and I’m on my hands and knees, gasping, in the shallow water.

  Siegfried grasps my upper arm, helps me stand, places the robe around my shoulders.

  ‘I flew!’

  ‘You did, Your Grace. Are you happy?’

  He’s watching me, waiting for an answer. And I am happy – if happiness can be found in relief. I’m relieved the potion worked, that there is a way for me to evade the sentence that will be passed upon me if my inability to transform becomes public knowledge. I’m relieved, too, that the flight is over. The experience was nothing like I remember it.

  But that’s hardly Siegfried’s fault.

  ‘Yes, I’m happy. Thank you, my friend. You’ve saved me.’

  He breaks into a grin. ‘You’re welcome, Aderyn.’ We start walking back into the Citadel. ‘And thank you for trusting me. You really have no idea what it means to me.’

  ‘I’m glad I did.’ My muscles are tingling, twitching, as if part of my brain still thinks I should be able to leap into the air and soar away.

  Siegfried puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘Careful now – I don’t want you taking a tumble into the fjord.’ The warmth of his body next to mine is pleasant; the chill of the antidote seems to be gradually deepening, seeping from my skin into my joints and muscles.

  ‘How long will I feel like this?’

  ‘For a couple of hours, probably. The cold may get worse before it gets better. Shall we try again tomorrow night? The sacred lake is far up in the mountains. Flying at such a height will be a challenge.’

  So I’d better keep practising. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘After dinner then. We can stay at the lake in the gardens for a while. When you’re feeling confident we can come back here, in the daylight.’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘Of course. You should show people that the rumours about your inability to transform, to fly, are false. Or at least –’ he quirks an eyebrow – ‘you must make them think they are false.’

  Because the potion is a deceit, of course. I’ve already lied – to the king, to Aron and Odette – so I don’t really understand why this feels different. Worse.

  ‘Don’t worry, Aderyn.’ Siegfried leans closer until he’s whispering in my ear. ‘I will never betray you to the king. You just need to trust me.’

  I nod. ‘I know. And I do.’ I look around, taking in our surroundings. ‘I can find my way from here.’

  ‘Until tomorrow then. If you don’t mind my advising you –’ he smiles at me warmly – ‘try to get some rest. Goodnight, Your Grace.’

  As Siegfried turns up a nearby set of stairs, I walk back through the corridors to my own rooms. It’s late, and I know I should sleep. I get as far as changing into my nightgown. But I find it impossible to settle. Whether it’s because I’m cold, and therefore uncomfortable, or because of some other side effect of the antidote, I can barely keep still. After nearly an hour of prowling about my room, I can’t stand it any longer. I put on my cloak and head back down to the gardens.

  There’s no one around. I ramble among the pathways, enjoying the solitude and the space and the way every flower is silvered by the moon.

  Until I hear voices coming from behind a nearby hedge. Puzzled, I slow down and edge closer, treading carefully on the grass verges.

  Lucien. And the second person, I think, is Turik, his manservant. It sounds as if Lucien is dictating a letter.

  ‘… much worse than we expected. Convocation continues to increase taxes on the flightless, despite the fact that many have virtually nothing to live on. Any suggestion of reform is now rejected out of hand. I believe, if there is to be a chance … no, if we are to succeed –’ He sighs. ‘I don’t know. I’m too tired to think. We’ll stop there for now, Turik; I’m sorry we didn’t start earlier.’

  ‘I don’t mind, my lord. I hope you had a good evening? Did you enjoy your talk with Lady Thressa? I dare say your father would be pleased if you brought her home to Hatchlands.’

  ‘I dare say. But I don’t think we would suit.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, my lord. Though of course, she’s not as high-ranking as Lady Aderyn. I remember you were very much taken with Her Grace, when we first went to Merl.’

  ‘I think you are remembering wrongly, Turik.’ Lucien’s voice is cold. ‘And besides, Lady Aderyn …’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. To be honest, I pity whoever weds her. But it won’t be me.’ Silence falls – silence during which I wonder why Lucien’s words should hurt me so much, and then he adds: ‘Well? You obviously still have something to say on the matter.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord. But it worries us, who Her Grace will marry. If she should contract with someone like Patrus of Brithys … I know what a Protector like that
means: hunger, and fear. We barely escaped with our lives. I thought Atratys would be safe.’

  ‘It is safe.’

  ‘For now. But … You’d make a good Protector, my lord. If there was a way, maybe, that you could persuade Her Grace to step aside –’

  ‘That’s not how it works, Turik. And you’re worrying unnecessarily. Her Grace cares deeply for her dominion.’

  ‘If you say so, my lord.’ Turik sounds sullenly unconvinced.

  ‘I do. You’re just going to have to trust me. My first loyalty is always and only to Atratys, not to its ruler. If I’m wrong, and Lady Aderyn does anything to endanger our dominion, if it came to a choice between protecting her or protecting Atratys, then I promise you: I would sacrifice her. I’d sacrifice her without a second thought.’

  Eight

  He’d sacrifice me?

  I strain my ears, not wanting to believe what I’ve heard.

  ‘It’s late. We should return to the castle.’ Lucien’s tone sharpens. ‘And I don’t want to hear another word on this subject, Turik. You presume too much on my tolerance.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. My apologies.’

  The voices are moving closer. I pick up my skirt and sprint back along the paths, into the castle and back to my own room, where I lock and bar the door. And then I sit on the edge of one of the sofas, staring at the locked door, too shocked to move.

  I don’t understand.

  I’ve come to rely on Lucien. To trust him, despite his warnings. And only two days ago, he told me he wouldn’t let the king hurt me.

  For what? So that he can hurt me himself, if he decides I’ve somehow failed?

  I know he’s not my friend.

  But I didn’t know he’d cast himself in the role of my judge. Or my executioner.

  There’s a headache building behind my eyes. The chilling effect of the antidote is getting steadily worse. Cold bites deep into my bones. Begins to cloud my thoughts.

  Perhaps – perhaps Lucien was just saying what he needed to say to calm Turik’s fears. Turik, who only just escaped from somewhere – Brithys? – with his life …

  My teeth are chattering. The embers of the fire are still glowing on the hearth, so I blow on them and add some more wood, crouching as near as I can to the flames, trying to rub some feeling back into my almost-numb hands. It doesn’t help much. I can’t stop shaking. My body is freezing and my chest aches and, despite everything, I wish that Lucien was here, so I could beg him to wrap me in his arms.

  But he isn’t here. I’m completely alone. And all the terror that the potion allowed me to avoid earlier – it’s just been waiting for me, hiding in the shadowy corners of my room. I try to think about how it felt when I was flying with Siegfried. To recall my experience of flying as a child.

  All I can remember, though, is that last flight with my mother. But now I can hear her voice in my head once more, and I can’t shut it out. I’m compelled to listen, over and over, as she tells me to flee, screams defiance at the hawks who pursue us, screams in pain as they strike her down …

  ‘Aderyn?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Aderyn, are you unwell?’

  I open my eyes. Letya is peering down at me, her expression anxious. My arms and shoulders ache horribly. The skin on my back is sore, my nails sting, even the roots of my hair hurt. And for some reason I’m lying on the floor of my sitting room. I push myself up, groaning.

  Letya gasps. ‘I’ll fetch the doctor –’

  ‘No – I don’t need a doctor.’

  ‘But, your back …’ She points to my shoulders.

  I struggle upright and walk to the huge gilt mirror hanging on one wall. Above the neckline of my nightgown there are purple bruises fanning out across my collarbone and my shoulders. Another thing I had forgotten: how hard it is on the body when you first begin to shift your shape.

  ‘It’s just bruising, Letya, it’ll fade. I transformed last night. It …’ I prod the bruises and wince. ‘I found it tiring. I must have fallen asleep in front of the fire.’

  ‘You transformed? The Creator be praised.’

  ‘I’ll tell Lord Rookwood, but as far as the rest of the court is concerned, I never lost the ability. Be sure you keep it a secret.’

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.

  Letya flushes. ‘As if I would ever say anything that might put you at risk, Your Grace.’ When we’re alone, she only uses titles at me when she’s angry. I open my mouth to apologise, but a ripple of pain sends me snatching at my shoulder. My friend sighs and shakes her head. ‘Get into bed. I’ll have a housemaid bring some hot water for the bath. And a high-necked gown today, I think …’

  With Letya’s help, I feel a little less ruffled by the time I have to face Lucien. He’s waiting in the sitting room with his notebook at the ready. When I walk in, he looks me up and down.

  ‘You look as if you’ve been in a fight.’

  ‘You don’t look much better.’ He can’t deny it. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes, he’s unshaven, and from the state of his clothing it’s quite possible that he got dressed in the dark.

  ‘I was working late on … on a proposal that we’re presenting to the Clerk of Markets regarding reduction of tariffs on tin exports.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  For a moment I think about challenging him. I could tell him that I heard him in the garden with Turik. I could accuse – condemn – dispatch him. Protect myself by sending him back to Atratys in disgrace. I stare, hoping to read in his face some sign that what I heard last night was a mistake. That I can still trust him. But his expression is as carefully composed as always.

  I stare for too long.

  ‘Is there something the matter, Your Grace?’

  ‘No.’ Better, perhaps, to keep him where I can see him. ‘I look forward to reading your report.’

  He frowns ever so slightly. ‘May I enquire what you were doing last night, Your Grace?’

  ‘I was transforming into a swan.’

  My statement has as much impact as I could hope for. My clerk’s jaw drops and he gazes at me, silent, for a full half-minute.

  ‘But – but, how?’

  I hesitate. On the one hand, I am not about to tell Lucien, of all people, about the potion. On the other, if I am to keep flying, it’s impossible that Lucien won’t eventually realise that Siegfried is, somehow, involved. I shrug. ‘Lord Siegfried was able to help me. With his … encouragement, I found that I could overcome the difficulties that I’ve been experiencing. We even managed a short flight.’

  The excitement has faded from Lucien’s face, leaving it cold.

  ‘How fortunate. I wasn’t aware that his lordship has such a gift for teaching. Perhaps the two of you should take a flight in public; it might silence the rumour-mongers.’

  I resist the temptation to tell him how little his tone of disdain suits him. ‘Not yet. Not until my flying is stronger.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Lucien bows and opens his notebook. ‘I believe, as soon as the wedding is over, that we should return to Atratys. If you’re in agreement, I’ll seek permission from His Majesty’s secretary. We could leave the very next day.’

  So soon? Despite the danger I’m in, despite the fact that the king disgusts me and terrifies me, I can’t leave yet. I haven’t found the place mentioned in Frant’s book. I haven’t discovered what happened to Flayfeather. But I can’t explain any of this to Lucien. I wave him away.

  ‘I’ll consider your suggestion.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace. At least our return journey will be easier, now you can fly.’

  He leaves, and I close my eyes and massage my temples. The headache I had last night is threatening to return. I suppose Siegfried could give me the potion and start me on my journey back to Merl. But someone – Lucien? – would have to know to give me the antidote. And how am I going to keep flying after that?

  These questions are still weighing on my mind when I retire to dress for dinner
eight hours or so later. Before Letya arrives, I try to transform again. I do my best to recapture the sensation of change that the potion gave me last night, to bypass that part of me that keeps reliving the attack, but it doesn’t work. The fear – and the pain – are as unbearable as they have always been. For now, at least, I am wholly dependent on Siegfried’s goodwill.

  To begin with, my flying lessons go well. I seem to get stronger. The bruising and pain of transformation fade a little, and the chill caused by the antidote grows less intense. But towards the end of the second week something seems to change. I find it harder to concentrate. My mind, during flight and immediately afterwards, seems dull and disobedient, shrinking to the immediate moment, the next wing-beat, the mere mechanical sensation of wings moving against wind. And I grow forgetful: a couple of times, as we are flying, I struggle to bring to mind the names of the features beneath me. One evening, as we walk back through the gardens, I reluctantly mention my concerns to Siegfried.

  ‘I can’t afford to stop flying. But what if this potion is affecting me in some other way? And what if it’s permanent?’ I chew my bottom lip, thinking about the flight we’ve just taken. ‘I should be able to remember the words “hill” and “lake” without any difficulty.’

  Siegfried puts an arm around my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll contact my friend, see if there’s something we need to add to the potion, or some adjustment that should be made to the dose. He’s a clever man. He’ll find a remedy.’

  ‘But what if he can’t?’

  ‘He will.’ Siegfried flashes me a smile. ‘I choose my friends carefully.’

  ‘Perhaps I can meet him. I could describe the symptoms …’

  ‘I’m afraid not: he doesn’t even live in Solanum any more. A pity, since I’m sure you’d get on well. Here –’ he plucks a perfect red dahlia from the flower-bed next to us and passes it to me – ‘a gift, from one friend to another. You trust me, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, then. Carry on practising, and let me worry about the side effects.’