The Cygnet and the Firebird

“A FEAST.”—
School Library Journal

Unanimous acclaim for World Fantasy Award-Winner Patricia A. McKillip and
The Cygnet and the Firebird

“DREAMLIKE . . . the imagery is distinctively dramatic—colorful, evocative, and occasionally surreal.”

—
Locus

“LUSH IMAGERY AND WRY HUMOR . . . McKillip’s rich language . . . conveys real strangeness and power.”

—
Starlog

“BEAUTIFUL, INTRICATE . . . McKillip’s writing again has the same cool elegance that makes it a pleasure to read.”

—
Booklist

“AN ATMOSPHERIC SETTING, intriguing characters, and . . . interesting magical ideas.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“AN ENTERTAINING READ.”

—
Australian SF News

And more praise for Patricia A. McKillip’s
The Sorceress and the Cygnet

“ONE OF THE YEAR’S BEST.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN . . . lyrical and humorous . . . rich, evocative prose.”

—
New York Review of Science Fiction

“ORIGINAL, TANTALIZING, AND CONVINCING.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

Ace Books by Patricia A. McKillip

The Forgotten Beasts of Eld

The Sorceress and the Cygnet

The Cygnet and the Firebird

The Book of Atrix Wolfe

Winter Rose

Song for the Basilisk

Riddle-Master: The Complete Trilogy

The Tower at Stony Wood

Ombria in Shadow

In the Forests of Serre

Alphabet of Thorn

Od Magic

Harrowing the Dragon

Solstice Wood

The Bell at Sealey Head

The Bards of Bone Plain

Collected Works

Cygnet

Version_1

For Howard Morhaim,
the Dark Knight of the Soul,
with love (and no cholesterol)

Praise for Patricia A. McKillip

Other Books by Patricia A. McKillip

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Meguet Vervaine stood at the threshold of Chrysom’s back tower, swans flying at her back and shoulder and wrists, swans soaring out of her hands. She had stood so for hours. Dressed in black silk with the Cygnet of Ro Holding spanning silver moons on mantle and tunic, she held the ancient broadsword of Moro Ro, unsheathed, tip to the floor, guarding against stray goose and cottage child’s ball and wandering butterfly, for within the broad, circular hall the councils from the four Holds had gathered to discuss their differences under the sign of the Cygnet and the formidable eye of Lauro Ro. In Moro Ro’s day, the threshold guards would have faced both chamber and yard, prepared for violence from any direction, not least from the volatile councils. Meguet, armed by tradition rather than necessity, faced the hall to keep the sun out of her eyes. She had gathered her long corn-silk hair into a severe braid; her eyes, green a shade lighter than the rose leaves that climbed the walls of the thousand-year-old tower, kept a calm and careful watch over the sometimes testy gathering.
Members of the oldest families in Ro Holding had made long, uncomfortable journeys to meet for the Holding Council in a place where, not many weeks before, Meguet had found herself raising the sword in her hands to battle for her life. She did not expect trouble; it had come and gone, but some part of her still tensed at shadows, at unexpected voices.

But only the councilors themselves had provided any excitement, and that was contingent upon such complexities as border taxes. There had been sharp debate earlier in the day between Hunter Hold and the Delta over mines in the border mountains, which had kept everyone awake on the ninth day of the long council. Now, the heavy late-afternoon light, the pigeons murmuring in the high windows, and Haf Berg’s young, pompous, querulous voice maundering endlessly about sheep, threw a stupor over the hall. Meguet heard a snore from one of the back tables. She stifled a yawn. A sudden wind tugged at her light mantle. The air was a heady mix of brine and sun-steeped roses on the tower vines; it seemed to blow from everywhere at once: from past and future, from unexplored countries where wooden flowers opened on tree boughs to reveal strange, rich spices, and sheep the colors of autumn leaves wandered through the hills. . . .

She felt herself drifting on the alien wind; a sound brought her back. The hall was silent; she wondered if she herself had made some noise. But it was only Haf Berg, sitting down at last, working his chair fussily across the flagstones. Lauro Ro watched him impassively.
She sat at the crescent dais table, the Cygnet flying like a shadow through tarnished midnight stars on the vast, timeworn banner behind her. Her elegant face was unreadable, her wild dark hair so unnaturally tidy that Meguet suspected Nyx had bewitched it into submission. The Holder’s heir sat at her right, wearing her enigmatic reputation with composure. Lauro Ro asked, “Will anyone challenge Haf Berg’s painstaking examination of the problems of sheep pasturage on the south border of Berg Hold?” There was a daunting note in her voice. Only a pigeon challenged. Iris, on the Holder’s left, consulted a paper and whispered to her mother.

Rush Yarr sat beside Iris, and Calyx beside Nyx. The two younger sisters, one fair and reclusive, the other dark and distinguished most of the time by extraordinary rumors, bore the intense scrutiny of the council members calmly. When Calyx spoke, pearls and doves did not fall from her lips. When Nyx spoke, toads did not fall, nor did lightning flash. But it had taken days for the anticipation to fade.

The Holder spoke again. Linden Dacey of Withy Hold wished to bring up the matter of . . . Meguet tightened her shoulders, loosened them. A knot burned at the nape of her neck. She shifted slightly, easing some of her weight onto the blade she held. Across the room, the sorceress lifted her eyes at the flash of light.

They looked at one another a moment: cousins bound by blood and by secret, ancient ways. Memories gathered between them in the sunlit air. The
swans on the hilt and etched blade in Meguet’s hands had taken wing, Nyx had transformed herself from bog-witch into Cygnet’s heir so recently that the sorcery in that hidden time and place beneath their feet must still be rebounding against the labyrinth stones. The sorceress’s eyes, mist-pale in the light, seemed mildly speculative, as if, Meguet thought, she contemplated turning her cousin into a bat to liven up the tedium, Meguet, returning her attention to the proceedings, half-wished she would.

Linden Dacey had brought up the matter of a border feud between Withy Hold and the Delta. A river had shifted, or been shifted; the south border, defined for centuries, was suddenly uncertain . . . The great Hold banners swayed and glittered above her head as she spoke; eyes caught at Meguet. The Blood Fox of the Delta prowled on starry pads; one eye glinted as if thought had flashed through its bright threads. The Gold King of Hunter Hold, the crowned and furious sun, glared out of his prison of night. Meguet, gazing back, felt a sudden chill, as if the face of spun gold thread were alive again and watching.

Someone from the Delta interrupted Linden Dacey. There was an interesting squabble on the council floor. Old Maharis Kell jerked mid-snore out of his nap. The Holder let it rage a moment, probably to wake everyone up. Then she cut through it in a voice that must have brought a few cottagers in the outer yard to a dead stop. Rush Yarr slid a hand over his mouth. Calyx, catching a tremor in the air, glanced at him. Rush, Meguet noted, had recovered his sense of
humor—or discovered it, she wasn’t sure which, for he had loved a sorceress who was never home for so long that likely even he didn’t remember if he had one. Calyx had entered the doorless walls of the tower he had built around himself, and he found her inside his heart.

Linden Dacey, finished finally, yielded debate to the chastened Delta councilor. Gold streaked suddenly through a west window. Meguet eyed her shadow, guessed at the time. Another hour, if that . . . The Delta councilor bit a word in half and was still. Meguet raised her eyes. On the dais, no one breathed. Behind her the yard was soundless. Not a child’s shout, a groaning wagon wheel, an iron blow from the smithy, disturbed the sudden, bewitched silence. Meguet stared at Nyx, wondering if, bored or day-dreaming, she had thrown some spell over the council. But Nyx was entranced by the table, it seemed; she gazed at it, wide-eyed, motionless.