The Black Swan (7 page)

She had timed her work to a nicety, for the rush of Silent Ones to the doorway gave her just enough warning to turn and curtsy as von Rothbart entered his domain.

“I see there is no need to ask you today what you have been doing.” As usual, there was very little inflection in his voice, but as was
not
usual, the faint hint of emotion was positive. She rose from the floor and looked up at him with hooded eyes, warily.

“I hope I have not overstepped my authority, Father,” was all she said in reply.

His lips curved in a faint, but real smile. “Such usurpation would be most acceptable in the future.” He stared over her head at the tapestries, but this was the closest she'd gotten to praise from him in months, and she felt limp with pleasure. “I had half-forgotten what these hangings portrayed. . . .” He stared a moment longer. “I should not be ashamed to receive the Emperor here, now. This is a pleasant surprise indeed, daughter.”

She curtsied again, quickly, bowing her head to hide her face, for she was afraid that if he saw her flushed, happy expression, she would lose all the approval she had just gained by betraying her feelings.

As she remained in that pose, he moved past her—and actually laid his hand for a moment on the top of her bowed head! The caress made her dizzy with a fierce joy that burned away every bit of resentment and discontent she'd felt over the past several months. If he'd asked her to cast herself into the mouth of Vesuvius at that moment, she'd have done so without a moment's hesitation. Reveling in her joy, she remained in her kneeling position while he passed on to his own quarters.

It was only when she rose and found herself momentarily off-balance that she realized it might not be only joy that was making her dizzy.
Ah . . . I don't think I should move very far. I don't think I can.
She put out her hand to balance herself, and took a few careful steps to one of the chairs at the side of the room to sit down.

“Bring me honeyed wine,” she ordered aloud, hoping that at least one of the Silent Ones had remained with her.
If they aren't—I'll just have to manage.
She was in luck; she put her head down on her knees to clear it, and when she straightened up again, a silver salver hovered at her elbow, with a matching goblet on it. She seized the vessel and gulped the potion down, then leaned back against the ancient wood of the chair, and waited for her weakness to pass. It didn't matter, really; the important thing was that her father had finally shown open approval of what she'd done.

And even if it wasn't impressive magic, it was clever, even if I do say so myself. It was very delicate work, too—it took a light touch. But I must have been doing more than I thought, to be this drained. Maybe it was because I went so slowly at first. . . .
It was rather strange that she hadn't immediately felt the effects, but she couldn't think of anything else that would account for the severe drain on her energy.
Well, it's all right. It will come back.
Feeling stronger, she ordered the waiting servant to bring her strawberries and cream, a favorite dish that replenished strength quickly but wasn't as cloying as the honeyed wine. Sorcerers always had a taste for sweets, driven by their need to replenish depleted energy, and there were always plenty of sweet things in the kitchen. When von Rothbart finished a major work of magic, she had known him to devour an entire marzipan figure by himself.

The strawberries were absolutely fresh, and the cream had been slightly sweetened with honey before being beaten to thicken it. The snack and the wine helped a great deal, and she left the bowl and goblet for the Silent One to clean up, rising from the chair to take careful steps towards her own rooms. It still seemed odd that she should have been so very drained—but when she looked back over her shoulder, the amount of work she had accomplished impressed even her.
Filth must have been positively embedded in the fabric by now. Maybe I should be surprised that I'm not
more
tired.

She shivered; cold was another symptom of energy drain, and she was freezing, hands and feet like ice sculptures. “Put warm bricks in my bed,” she ordered without looking back. “And have a warm posset waiting at my bedside.”
At the rate I'm walking, even if there's only
one
servitor about, it can get the dishes to the kitchen and complete my orders before I reach the door of my bed chamber. I'm moving like a feeble old woman.

She wrapped her arms around herself, chafing at her upper arms with her hands to try to stir up her blood as she walked. Just as she got halfway to her rooms, the posset drifted by on invisible hands, and with the scent of cinnamon to spur her on, she put a little more life into her steps.

Curtains belled gently in a warm breeze as she passed open windows, and moonlight poured through onto the floor, checkering her path in light and shadow. She glanced out one of the windows as she went by, and a faint strain of music caught her ear; Katerina was dancing with the little ones, with the older maidens in a larger circle around them. Evidently she'd managed to forget how heartbroken she was.

And a month ago, didn't she swear she wanted to die?
Odile's lips tightened in a cynical smile.
Father is right. They are all of them faithless. Perhaps they can fool themselves, but they will never fool him.

The door to her rooms stood open, and she was mortally glad to let her weary feet take her inside. Once there, she let the Silent Ones disrobe her for a change, and staggered into the bed, now delightfully warmed with the bricks. The posset stood within arm's reach on her bedside table, or she would never have bothered to drink it, but it helped to warm her as well.

She felt herself falling asleep, and tried to get the cup back on the table, but couldn't keep her eyes open. Invisible fingers plucked the cup from her nerveless ones, and she fell instantly asleep.

Odile knew every article of her father's clothing—she should, for she had supervised the making of it—so it was no trick at all to insinuate her cleansing mist into his quarters, even though the door was locked. She had devised a rather neat touch to it, and one that would alert him to the method by which his clothing and linens were cleansed; she'd included a final scent as the hallmark of her magics. She'd chosen the scent of light musk, a little like the scent of a raptor's feathers; it wouldn't interfere with any of his spells, and it suited him. For herself, she preferred rosemary, sharp and cleansing.
Rosemary for memory. It might sting the conscience of some of the flock, though I don't think I'd care to count on that.

This was the dark of the moon, and unless her father wished it, the flock would remain as swans all night. Only he could counter the spell that required moonlight for their transformation.

Well, I think that I could, but I have no intention of doing so. Not tonight, my ladies. Father isn't here, so you'll just have to languish in your feathers. I intend to enjoy having the gardens all to myself for a change.
It only seemed fair to her; the flock had them twenty-seven days out of twenty-eight. On these moonless nights, they tended to slumber on and around the little island, sleeping to make the hours pass faster, she supposed.

She ordered the lanterns along the garden paths lit, and requested the Silent Ones to perform her favorite music, soft madrigals on lute, harp, and flute. Tonight she had done enough work; with the last of the summer flowers in bloom, she would enjoy a few hours without thinking of work or study.

There was a tense expectancy about her father lately, as if he had found something he had long looked for. He'd spent every night away from the manor; from past experience, she suspected that it wouldn't be long until he was on the hunt. The only question in her mind was, would he leave her and the flock here, or take them with her? He'd snared Katerina on his own, but roughly half the flock had been taken when he'd had the rest in tow.

That could have been only because I was so small, and he didn't care to leave me alone,
she thought, a bit wistfully. He hadn't trusted the Silent Ones with her unsupervised care, and of course her mother had been gone by then.

Mother . . . I don't even know what her given name was.
She couldn't recall much about her mother anymore, just a vague sense of comfort, a low, sweet voice, and the scent of violets. Her father wouldn't allow a single violet to take root here; the Silent Ones dug them out ruthlessly and the few times she'd seen or smelled one had been when she'd been outside the estate. She hadn't even known that the scent she associated with her mother
was
the scent of violets, until she'd come across some in bloom when she wandered in a wild part of the forest around the manor.

Von Rothbart didn't exactly refuse to talk about her mother, so much as completely ignore any questions on the subject. As a very young child, she'd learned not to ask those questions because when she did, her father would stalk off and leave her alone.

Now I prefer to be alone. How odd.
Just as well, really; sorcerers were a solitary lot, and it was as well to make a virtue of necessity. Other magicians might choose to be in the employ of kings and princes, but not her father.
He
would take second place to no man.

And quite rightly, too,
she thought with pride.
Baron von Rothbart has blood as fine as any prince, and power that none can match. They should be bowing to him, not the other way around.

She wondered what he was hunting this time, and where. Although she understood his self-imposed search for unfaithful women, it had occurred to her more than once that it was probably the hunt itself that interested him, and not the final capture. The spells he used to take his quarry were very much alike; the transformation spell and binding spell were items she had mastered—there wasn't much scope there for creativity.
It must be the stalk, the chase itself that keeps him interested.
How many women did he watch before he found the faithless ones? Was such watching tedious—or did he have another version of the Silent Ones to invisibly spy out his quarry?

All women can't be unfaithful, or there wouldn't be anyone left to raise families. Unless they run off with a lover only to find they're expected to raise the children
his
unfaithful spouse left behind!
That created an image she had to laugh over, though she doubted her father would have found it funny.

She wandered back to the manor, thinking of finding a book to read, when a huge shadow passed over her head and the flames in the lanterns flickered with the wind of its passing. At that moment, all thought of finding a book flew out of her head; her father was back, and early—which meant—what?

She picked up her skirts and ran toward the steps of the manor, as the lanterns went out behind her, extinguished by her own magic.

When she reached the manor, von Rothbart had made his own transformation. He stood on the steps, his feather cloak cast back over his shoulders, looking out over the lake. She followed his gaze, and saw the flock swimming slowly toward the shore, faint white shapes shimmering in the starlight, with Odette, neck ringed with the glint of gold, in the lead.

They stepped up onto the shore and paraded toward him, heads bowed gracefully, necks curved in arcs of obedience. Odile stood instinctively to the side; he had summoned them here with his power for a purpose, but she was not one of their number, she was a creature apart.

When they stood in a rough half circle before him, he raised one hand in an imperious gesture, and they dropped to the grass, covered, for a moment, by a winglike shadow. When they rose again, they rose as human, beautiful women clothed in silks of purest white and darkest black, hair ornamented with wreaths of feathers instead of flowers or veils.

Von Rothbart surveyed his flock, head raised arrogantly, and Odile retreated a little farther into the shadows as he gave her a sharp glance. She knew that look in his eyes. She was to efface herself for the moment.
Listen and watch; this concerns me, but is not aimed at me.

“Katerina,” he said, in a voice cold as frozen iron. “Come here.”

She could not have disobeyed, though she clearly wanted to. His power dragged her to the front of the group, step by reluctant step.

“There is a reason why you are here,” he said, words that Odile had expected long before this. “Do you know it yet?”

Katerina looked up, mouth sulky yet defiant. “I have done nothing, sorcerer,” she snapped. “What is it you desire? A ransom in gold? An exchange with my husband? It is you who have taken me unwilling from my place.”

“And what place would that be?” von Rothbart asked in silky tones. “By the side of your husband?
Or your lover?
”