The Swan Maiden (3 page)

A horrible feeling pinched Doucette's insides as she turned from her angry mother to her intent father. “Azelais and Cecilia have them.”

“Yes,” Lord Pascau said. “Your sisters were born swan maidens.”

“Sorceresses,” Lady Sarpine hissed, twisting her elegant fingers together. “I was promised one child to raise properly, with none of that Aigleron magical nonsense.”

“Softly, Wife.”

The smooth menace in her father's voice had made Doucette want to curl up and hide inside the birthday chest. It had affected her mother, too; the comtesse's agitated hands went still.

Lord Pascau looked down his aquiline nose. “Aigleron ‘magical nonsense' maintains your entire family in its present comfort. Surely you would not care to disturb that arrangement?”

The skin tightened along Lady Sarpine's jaw. “No, by your grace.”

“I thought not,” the comte said pleasantly. He cupped Doucette's chin in his hand and tilted her face to meet his gaze.

The awkward position hurt her neck, but Doucette didn't complain. She was trying to breathe. It felt as though something important within her was being ripped away.

“You will never wear a swan skin, never study the High Arts,” her father said. A note of regret softened the terrible words. “I'm sorry, child. But with your mother's training, you'll make a pious and capable chastelaine whom all may admire.” He let go of her chin and patted her head.

Doucette's shoulders bowed.

“Exactly so.” The color had returned to Lady Sarpine's face. She eased gracefully to the floor and folded her daughter in her arms, surrounding Doucette with the scent of jasmine.

“It's not fair! They can fly!” Doucette could not contain the passionate sobs that shook her body.

“Don't cry, my treasure,” her mother soothed. “Sorcery's a dangerous business. Given your advantages, you'll be a power in the realm and mistress of a splendid castle one day. Oh, sweet-ling, you've so much to look forward to.”

Doucette disagreed, but no one asked her opinion.

Over the years, she had tried to give up her dreams and accept the path mapped out for her. Each time she heard the wild note in Cecilia's laughter or spied the glint in Azelais's dark eyes that meant imminent flight, Doucette would occupy herself with a chastelaine's duties. But always she found herself stealing up the stairs to the tower chamber. Sick with longing, she'd watch her sisters turn into swans and soar over the countryside with a freedom she would never know.

*   *   *

She might have envied them less if she had realized how the wind would toss her about, helpless as a leaf. At times, Cecilia's Animated sail plunged toward earth, so Anfos's kicking legs and Doucette's fragile slippers trailed above the thorn bushes. Then the capricious wind lifted them until the air felt thin and strange in Doucette's lungs. Just when her nervous stomach calmed, the sail would swing them around like two puppets, and Doucette's heart would get stuck in her throat again.

One arm ached from holding the fabric, the other from clutching the honey jar to her chest. Strands of hair came loose from her braids and whipped around her face. Doucette held her breath when she and Anfos tumbled; she gasped for air when, more slowly, they climbed.

With the small part of her mind that wasn't completely terrified, Doucette noticed that the sky smelled like spring. First, wet rock and herbs, then turned earth, new grass, and sheep. The force of the wind made her eyes water, and she closed them. The sail leveled briefly, then swooped.

Down,
Doucette's stomach told her. The sheep smell got very strong.

She opened her eyes and saw the sail crumple.

Chapter Three

Doucette and Anfos tumbled over the white backs of wildly bleating ewes. Behind the frightened sheep, the flock's guardian saw them, too. A tan-colored dog the size of a bear charged at the airborne menace.

Doucette choked on a scream as the dog's warning growl sounded in her ear. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of teeth, and thought she tasted the creature's evil breath before the invisible wind freshened and the sail pulled taut, snatching Doucette out of reach.

“Peace, Osco,” a friendly voice called. “What news, travelers?”

“Ho, shepherd!” Anfos shouted back.

Doucette kept her mouth closed, afraid of what would come out if she opened it. They had almost reached the shearing pens. She could see the willow fencing marking off the enclosures, the tents and wagons, the line of trees along the river's edge.

With a final flourish, the wind deposited Anfos and Doucette on the muddy ground outside the first empty pen. When they touched the earth, Cecilia's spell unraveled. The sail shrank to its original size and fluttered to earth.

Against all expectation, Anfos still held the bread sack, and Doucette had kept the honey. As she landed, the heavy jar thudded into her middle, robbing her of breath. Feeling as though she had run for miles and wrestled the big dog after that, Doucette lay still. Despite the relief that overwhelmed her, she missed the sensation of the wind tugging at her hair.

“Lady Doucette, are you well?” Anfos scrambled to sit beside her. “Because your face looks green. Did you know magic makes your skin turn colors and your insides twist up in knots? I don't mind, though, because we flew high as falcons! Didn't we?”

Doucette sighed. “Yes, Anfos.”

“Can we go again?”

Before she could answer, an eager
yip, yip, yip
exploded near Doucette's head. A wet tongue lapped her face.

“Ugh! Stop!” Rolling the honey jar away from her body, Doucette thrust out an arm to fend off her attacker.

“Come here, Fidele,” Anfos ordered.

“Lady Doucette?” a cheerful voice asked.

Doucette pushed her straggling hair out of her face and tried to compose herself, a task made more difficult by the realization that a cold, wet patch was spreading over her back and legs. When she sat upright, the velvet gown pulled from the ground with an ominous sucking sound. Doucette looked up and swallowed.

It was unfair, but inevitable, that the oldest and most handsome of the Vent'roux brothers had witnessed her undignified arrival.

Like other shepherds, Jaume wore a short brown tunic and leather leggings, a wool cape and broad-brimmed hat. Also like many, he was tall and strong, and he leaned on his shepherd's crook with a deceptively sleepy air. Unlike most, he had thick dark hair that curled around his strong features and a smile whose sweetness always made Doucette forget that she was the comte's plain daughter, the boring, practical, nonmagical one.

“Good morning, Jaume. I hope you had a pleasant journey to Beloc?” Embarrassment strangled Doucette's voice.

“Less eventful than yours, Lady.” He took off his hat and bowed, then extended a lean brown hand and helped Doucette to her feet as though she weighed no more than Fidele.

The small brown-and-white herding dog snuffled at the sack of welcome loaves. Jaume hoisted both sack and honey jar out of his dog's reach, then handed Doucette the white cloth. “Never seen a person flying a handkerchief before,” he observed. “You've taken up magic?”

“That was Lady Cecilia's spell.” Anfos rubbed Fidele's ears. “Isn't she a beauty?”

“Oh, aye,” Jaume said.

Unreasonably, Doucette felt betrayed. Cecilia didn't need more admirers. She had scores.

“Has she got any new tricks?” Anfos asked.

“She will, by summer's end,” Doucette said, unable to suppress her bitterness. “Cecilia told me Tante Mahalt promised to teach them the greater Transformation spells this year.”

Anfos and Jaume wore identically puzzled expressions.

“I meant Fidele,” Anfos said.

“Oh, aye. Watch, now,” Jaume said.

Silently, Doucette folded the handkerchief and tucked it into her velvet sleeve. How ridiculous she must seem! Dressed for a ball and landing in the muck. She had better finish Na Patris's errand and run home before she could do anything else to damage Jaume's good opinion of her.

Her companions kindly ignored Doucette's preoccupation. Jaume made a pushing motion with one hand. “Fidele, down.”

The little dog flattened her belly to the grass, extended her front legs, and tucked her nose between her paws.

“Oh, clever!” Anfos clapped his hands.

Fidele looked so appealing that Doucette felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “Well done,” she said.

“That's my girl.” Jaume bent at the waist and pointed to his own face. “Fidele, kiss!”

The dog leaped twice her own height and licked the shepherd's cheek.

Anfos and Doucette both laughed. Fidele barked, pranced, and then, on command, repeated her kissing trick. This time, a chorus of jeering voices responded.

“Poor Jaume, twenty years old and can't get a sweetheart.”

“Give him a good nip, Fidele.”

“That's our big brother. Kiss the girls and make them bark.”

Baaa. Baaaaa.

Doucette almost slipped back into the mud when the wave of sheep broke over her. Anxious-eyed ewes butted her hip, trapping her against the side of the pen and adding green and brown smears to the muddy purple velvet.

Magically, Jaume seemed to be in several places at once. “Open the gate, Vitor,” he said, cuffing one brother on the ear while he caught Doucette's elbow to steady her. “You brought them in far too fast, Tinou. Do you have wool between your ears? No, don't tell me. Make yourself useful, man.” As Doucette recovered her balance, Jaume passed the honey jar to his brother, unhooked a lamb caught in the willow hurdles, and shouted at his youngest brother. “Eri, hold the rear with the other dogs. Fidele, pen!”

Brown-and-white herders nipped at their charges' heels. Fidele led the flock between the gates and stood guard, not allowing a single lamb to escape.

Doucette's feet were wet. She shifted to pull them free of the mud, and the slippers' fine silk uppers parted from the soles, like roasted chestnut skins peeling from the nutmeat. To her dismay, the shoes separated into limp pieces. Cold mud oozed between her toes.

She'd be walking home barefoot, thanks to her clever sisters and their clever spells. Perhaps she'd have done better to take her chances with Lavena in the caves. At least the spirit was said to give you something in exchange for what she took.

Woof.

A paw the size of a pony's hoof crushed the remains of Doucette's left shoe.

A little timidly, she held out her hand for the enormous dog to sniff. “Remember me, Osco? You know I'd never hurt one of your lambs.”

The flock's guardian yawned, showing fearsome teeth, then butted his massive jaw under Doucette's hand.

“Faugh.” Her nose wrinkled as she scratched the thick tan fur. “What have you been eating, you great brute?”

“Trolls.” Jaume's brother Vitor grinned down at Doucette. “Wolves, ogres, evil sorceresses. Thick as fleas they were, once we crossed the Turance into Beloc county.”

The sweep of a shepherd's crook knocked Vitor's hat off his head. “Manners,” Jaume said.

Vitor grimaced and bowed. “Your pardon, little lady. I didn't mean to insult your aunt. Or your sisters. I meant, um.”

As if she weren't standing in a field, covered with mud, thanks to one of those very same evil sorceresses, Doucette inclined her head. “Good morning, Vitor.”

Hat in one hand and honey jar in the other, Tinou came up to eye Doucette's bedraggled finery. “What, a revel, and no one told me? I would have worn my dancing shoes, Lady Doucette.” Despite his burden, he managed a courtier's bow.

“Tinou.” Blushing fiercely, Doucette curtsied in return. As she rose, she shook out the velvet skirts and stepped behind the big dog to hide her now-bare feet. Not that the merry shepherds would believe her attempts at decorum. They'd seen her flopping around in the air like washing on a line.

With Fidele and the other herding dogs at his heels, Eri closed the gate on the last of the ewes. “Lady.” As he straightened from his bow, the young man's dreamy brown eyes narrowed in concentration. Head lifted, Eri turned to Jaume. “Is that Na Patris's bread I smell?”

“You can't have it yet,” Anfos told him. “Na Patris said.”

“We know, Anfos.” Jaume draped the bread sack over the kitchen boy's shoulder. “It's for the wool mistress to share out. We've been here afore.”

“What's this?” Gently, Tinou shook the jar.

Anfos held out his free arm. “Honey for Na Soufio.”

“Cheese, too!” Vitor smacked his lips. “I'll give you a hand with that, sprout.”

Anfos danced out of reach. “No.”

“But what if your goods spoiled on the journey?” Tinou lifted the jar lid and sniffed. “Mm. I don't think Na Soufio will care for this at all.”

“Give it back!” Anfos lunged, but Tinou held the jar out of his reach.

“Have you boys come clear from Donsatrelle county to shear or to brawl?” a new voice asked.

“Na Soufio.” Tinou lowered the jar as a tall woman approached them.

She was dressed like the shepherds, in a short brown tunic and leggings. In place of their wide-brimmed hats, a white linen coif covered her hair, and an enameled guild badge shone from the center of her crimson scarf.

Triumphantly, Anfos claimed the honey jar. He turned to the wool mistress. “Na Patris's compliments, Na Soufio, here's a gift from the castle kitchen.” He leaned forward and continued in a loud whisper. “And if Jaume's brothers eat all the welcome breads like they did last year, you're to send word, and she'll bake more.”

Half hidden behind Osco's bulk, Doucette coughed. Jaume's brothers shuffled their feet.

“Thank you, Anfos.” The woman didn't smile, exactly, but she sounded less dour as she pointed to the largest of the tents. It flew the Beloc flag, a gold eagle spreading wide wings over an azure field. “I'd appreciate you taking it to the pavilion. Please convey my gratitude to Patris.”