Dearest (6 page)

They had all learned the hard way—well, all but François, who was smart enough to let his idiot older brothers learn on his behalf—that transforming each night back into a larger human body meant whatever wounds they had sustained as swans would grow proportionally larger as well, and vice versa. This particular gash might still yet usher him into the hands of Lord Death, especially if his sister kept on the way she did. Idly, he wondered which of the lord’s angels would come for his poor, tortured soul. He wasn’t worried. In fact, his soul was calmer and more alive at the moment than it had ever been his whole life.

Were there people who actually existed in states of such bliss? How did they function?

Elisa’s ministrations sent his body into paroxysms of pain; this time he did cry out. The twins grabbed him—one clamping a hand over his mouth and one holding his shoulders down as Tristan tried to squirm away from his sister.

Bernard adjusted his hand over Tristan’s face to get a firmer grip. “No giving us away, brother dear.”

“It’s no less than you deserve,” said Rene.

“What possessed you?” asked Christian.

“He’s finally gone mad,” Philippe said in low tones. It wasn’t a question.

Tristan’s almost-twin was the only one of them angrier at the world than Sebastien. Philippe was born angry at everything: his life of privilege, his inability to be the oldest or the biggest or the smartest or the strongest among his brothers, and now the curse, on top of everything else. What few words escaped Philippe’s lips dripped with spite. Tristan remembered being a young man full of fire in the days before their lands had fallen into the hands of their enemy, but that was nothing like Philippe’s tempered rage. And yet, Philippe had followed him off the edge of the tower without question and worked just as hard as the others to save the falling girl.

He might never understand his brother, but he loved him all the same.

Elisa stared at Tristan with scolding blue eyes and pointed to each of the speakers in turn, indicating that they were saying exactly what was on her mind, since she could not speak the words herself. She laid the cloth on him again; this time he growled like Sebastien and removed her hand. “Can’t think . . . when you’re . . . doing that,” he said as gently as he could.

“Wimp,” said Bernard.

“Girl,” said Rene.

“You must let her tend to it, Tristan. It looks terrible,” said Christian.

Elisa pointed at Christian.

“I’ll be fine,” said Tristan. “Just . . . give me . . . a moment.” It hurt to breathe. Elisa summoned the breeze in to cool his skin, since he would not let her touch him, and he welcomed it. It danced through her golden hair and set the candlelight flickering. Despite all the things Tristan hated about this curse, he was glad it masked his sister’s natural beauty by day, though he did miss the sound of her voice and the music of her laughter. There had been such joy in their lives once, so long ago that Tristan had almost forgotten what it felt like.

“What are we waiting for, exactly?” asked Bernard.

“Isn’t it obvious?” François sat apart from them all, his nose buried in another book. “He’s waiting for the girl.”

“She won’t be back,” growled Philippe. Tristan smiled. He could tell his brother didn’t believe that any more than Tristan himself did.

There was a deep, rumbling bark from the far edge of the open floor, and the brothers all turned to witness something they had not seen or heard in a very long time: Sebastien laughing. The sound was as disturbing as it was amusing. Their eldest brother scratched his short, dark beard and the sparse pelt of hair on his chest. “Tristan’s in
love
.”

Something else washed over Tristan then, something not pain but just as powerful. Love? Really? He’d definitely felt something since daybreak—a pull like a fist clasped round his heart—but . . . love? He didn’t even know her name! Since their parents had died, none of them but Sebastien had ever been in the position to love anyone but one another.

Tristan wondered what role the girl would play in their future. She could only have found them if the Gods of Air had led her here and allowed her passage. But why?

And why did he seem to know with extreme certainty that she would be walking through that Elder Wood door at any moment?

“Dunno,” Tristan managed to say. “She means . . . something.”

“Trouble,” said Bernard.

“Doom,” said Rene.

Tristan expected no less from his elder twins.

“Perhaps it’s time to break the curse,” François suggested from his corner.

Tristan saw Elisa’s shudder. Breaking the curse meant facing Mordant again, the man who had killed their parents and taken Elisa for his intended bride. Their curse had been the price of her refusal. Mordant’s sorceress had changed them into swans and a plain-faced serving girl. Thusly the heirs to the throne of Kassora, high seat of the Green Isles, had fled, eventually making their way west toward Faerie, into the heart of Arilland.

Though the brothers were forced into swanhood by day, it was worse for Elisa, who could not allow herself to speak a word aloud. If she did, the curse would trap her brothers’ souls inside their beastly bodies forevermore. She had hopped from orphanage to orphanage until she was finally sold to the royal kitchens here at the palace. The cook seemed to genuinely care for Elisa, fostered her as well as any guardian might, and for the first time in many years the siblings held some small hope of breaking the curse. For it was not out of the ordinary for swans to inhabit the royal gardens, and no one was hunting a mousy girl named Rampion.

A gentle hand knocked on the door; had Tristan not been holding his breath in wait for it, he might have missed the faint sound. “She’s here,” he whispered.

The wind whipped through the broken room as Elisa startled; her spells, which had been keeping it at bay, faltered briefly. The older brothers merely stared at the door as if in fear of what lay beyond. It was François, the youngest, who finally put down his book, wrapped a blanket about his waist, and went to open it. The rest of them scrambled for skin coverings of their own as she stepped tenuously into the room.

Oh, how Tristan’s soul had missed her.

What?

A nameless force clenched round his heart again. This was a ridiculous feeling—he hadn’t even known her a full day!—but it was there, nonetheless.

She looked smaller than he remembered. He shook off the swan’s memory; humans would not have referred to this girl as either small or slight. She was healthy, as a young woman might be who could climb terribly long flights of stairs on a regular basis. Her cheeks were flushed from the exercise. Rich mahogany curls spilled over her shoulders in a wild thicket—for a moment he saw blossoms sprinkled in that riot of hair, but then the moment was gone. She too had covered herself with more clothing this time, though merely a simple skirt and shirt, and she carried a large basket. There were slippers on her feet. Those feet did not venture far beyond the safety of the Elder Wood door.

Tristan realized how physically and mentally exhausting it must have been for her to make the journey back up here after falling so far. He wanted to go to her, to save her the trouble of having to come farther in the room to where he lay. Elisa put a hand on his chest to still him.

The girl braved one more step into the room before breaking the silence with her sweet voice. “I think you saved me,” she said to him. “I think you all saved me. And I thank you for that.” She set the basket down on the floor between them. “There is some food in there. A few more blankets. And a book.” She did not look at François—did not look at any of them—as she slowly backed away. “I’m sorry it couldn’t be more.” One more step back. She was outside the door now. “I should go.”

“Please.” It was Sebastien who spoke the words that bled from Tristan’s heart. “Stay.”

The girl smiled down at her slippers; her whole body seemed to soften and relax with the expression. Tristan wished she would smile at him like that. And then, as if he’d said the words aloud, she did. Her gaze hit him like a blow to the chest and took his breath from him. Or that might have been Elisa’s cloth at his wound again. He growled and slapped his sister’s hand away once more.

“My name is Friday.” Her voice was as soothing as a nurse at the bedside of a wounded warrior.

Elisa gave up and tossed her rag at Tristan. She stood, faced the girl, and then curtseyed low.

“Oh no, really. Please. You don’t have to do that,” said Friday.

“You’re the princess who minds the children.” Of all of them, François retained the most memories from his days as a swan. Tristan was only ever left with a stiffness in his shoulder muscles, the briny taste of fish on his tongue, and hazy, half-formed dreams.

“I am merely the daughter of a woodcutter and a devotee of the Earth Goddess,” she said. “But yes, my little sister happens to be the queen here. And yes, I lead an army of laundry-cleaning children. Such a glamorous life.” She pulled back the cloth that covered the basket’s contents. “I wasn’t sure if men who turned to swans would have the stomach for meat pies, so I selected some simpler rolls and pastries. I don’t think the kitchen will miss them.”

Rene and Bernard got over their shyness enough to snatch the basket out of her hand and rummage through it like a couple of starved kobolds. Elisa scrambled to retrieve the blanket they’d dropped and held it up to shield the princess from the twins’ nakedness.

“Cinnamon! I smell cinnamon. Dibs on the cinnamon thing, whatever it is.”

“Move your elbow, lout. Don’t mind the soft rolls, the old men can eat those. Ooh, I think I see a pie! Here’s your cinnamon thing. Now get your arm out of my face before I break it.”

Both the “old men”—Sebastien and Christian—chuckled at the twins.

“Your kindness is most appreciated,” said Sebastien. “It’s not often we see such treats.”

“Surely Rampion brings you bread from the kitchens,” said the princess.

“We don’t encourage it,” said Christian. “We don’t want her . . . reprimanded.”

Friday took another step forward, closer to Tristan. He wasn’t sure if she noticed, but he did. Her presence pulled at him, and he yearned for it. He wanted to keep her, to protect her, to save her all over again. He wanted to hold her and stop her from trembling. He never wanted her to be afraid again.

He screamed at the sky, in pain borne of frustration rather than blood.
“WHAT IS THIS?”
Tristan yelled at the princess, at the world, at the gods, and then immediately regretted his action. His first words to her should have been ones of kindness and introduction, not anger and confusion . . . but he’d had enough of feeling this strangeness between them without being able to define it.

Slowly, Friday shuffled her feet toward his prone body. When she became uncomfortable walking, she lowered herself to her knees and scooted up beside him. “I have just as many sisters as you have brothers, if you can believe that,” she said. “One of my older sisters, Wednesday, is a powerful fey. The evil king who lived here—the current king’s father—tried to bind her power to him in this very room, and in doing so almost destroyed it.” The more she spoke, the less she trembled. Tristan tried to concentrate on her words.

She waved a hand to the crumbling half-walls that surrounded them, but did not follow it with her eyes. “After the king died, Wednesday came back to this place and used binding magic to secure the stones and keep them from crumbling. Some who are sensitive to these things say they can still feel her magic in the mortar, fusing the tower into one solid structure.”

“What does this . . . have to do with . . . ?” He didn’t need to finish.

“My little sister—the queen—believes that Wednesday’s magic bound together more than just the stones of this tower. Sunday thinks that Wednesday strengthened many other bonds here in the castle, both tangible and intangible. Soldiers became more loyal. Families grew closer, our own certainly. And people whose destinies were meant to intertwine have been . . . particularly drawn to each other.”

“So this . . . is destiny?” As if Tristan hadn’t had enough of Fate’s meddling handiwork.

“Call it what you will, based on your own experiences and beliefs.” The comment was worthy of a dedicate. In which of the gods’ houses did she say she served? Earth? No wonder she was so ill at ease at this altitude. “Either way, I am here now, and I would like to help you. If you would let me.”

“Are you a physician?” Rene asked her, despite the fact that she clearly wasn’t.

To her credit the princess did not rise to his brother’s goading. “I am not a healer,” she said humbly. “I am a seamstress.”

“Do you use skin as fabric regularly?” Bernard asked in a similarly mocking tone.

“I have experience with leather and sheepskin. And I have a magic needle.” She pulled said needle from a seam inside the shoulder of her shirt. “After the king died, I sewed a goose back together with a thread made from the blood of a monster. The goose had previously been my sister Wednesday. By all accounts, both the goose and Wednesday are thriving.”

“You have a strange family,” said Philippe.

“So do we,” admitted François. Elisa pointed at him in agreement.

But even Philippe’s rancor didn’t seem to bother the princess. She removed a spool of white silken thread from the pocket of her skirt. “I should warn you, though: the goose now lays golden eggs. I don’t think you’ll start doing the same, but I won’t continue if you don’t want to risk it. The choice is yours.”

He didn’t want to smile at her, but Tristan couldn’t help himself. She smiled back at him, and in that moment she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

Destiny, maybe. But love?
Bah.
Ridiculous.

“Go on.” The command came from Sebastien. “He can take it.”

Friday still waited for Tristan’s nod of agreement. “The goose couldn’t tell me otherwise, but I imagine this is going to hurt.” She reached out to touch the flesh of his marred chest with her hand and a dark blue flame of lightning shot from his skin to hers. Tristan watched as the indigo spark leapt from them to the floor, splitting and dancing between the stones.