The Flight of Swans Read online

  I drew a pair of bare feet peering from beneath a skirt. Then songs streaming like a summer wind from the Queen’s mouth.

  She sang without words.

  Or perhaps words the old woman didn’t understand. Perhaps the mistress the Queen had escaped from was foreign and the Queen needed words to be understood here, in Lacharra.

  Feet. What did that mean? She’d been hurt? That made sense, if she’d escaped someplace foreign. How far away was the nearest place that spoke another language? I’d have to ask Gavyn—

  How exactly was I supposed to draw that question so that Gavyn would understand? I drew more swirls next to the mud-Queen’s mouth, thinking.

  A dress made the most sense once I considered it. If the Queen had escaped and come to the cottage so hurt she could barely stand, she’d need a new dress too.

  And then she wanted to leave?

  I’d left the castle seventeen days earlier and all I wanted was a safe place to stay. But she had wanted to leave the woman’s cottage after being given so much.

  Can you blame her?

  Maybe the woman had been mad then. Or perhaps it was the Queen’s handiwork.

  Regardless, she’d left with a golden-haired man.

  “. . . a golden king for my girl.”

  Was he truly a king? What had happened to the Queen after she left? What did she do?

  There was no way to know. But I did know what she wanted.

  “I want it all. Every last morsel.”

  I picked up the spindle again, turning it over in my hands. How could nettle tunics and a spindle stop the Queen?

  I remembered the hatred in the Queen’s voice when she mentioned the old woman. She’d have killed her if she could. But she hadn’t been able to reach the nettle-covered cottage, because nettles reminded her of Before.

  Whatever—wherever—that was.

  The old woman was convinced that nettles would break the enchantment, that the memory was that strong.

  Nettles—common weeds!—were such a pitifully small weapon.

  Yet remembering had been a powerful thing for Father. Years of reading together were wrapped up in the scent of cloves, and the Queen had rightly feared that.

  Very well, then. If nettles had stopped her, then I’d make nettle tunics—and pray they reminded the Queen of the Before she feared so much.

  I’d harvest fields of nettles and use the spindle to spin every last one.

  I examined the spindle the way I’d seen Mael look at a new sword, feeling the weight of it in my hand.

  The thin rod was nearly as long as my forearm, its wood glossy from being used so often. The whorl—I thought that was what it was called—was a carved wooden disk almost as wide as my fist at the lower end. Uneven yarn was wrapped above the whorl, covering a few small gashes in the rod.

  I gingerly touched the nubbly, gray-brown yarn above the whorl with a fingertip.

  No sting. It wouldn’t hurt my hands to spin it, then.

  I let the spindle dangle at the end of the yarn, trying to remember how the woman had used it. It had looked like a living thing in her hands. Almost magical.

  Here in the sunlight, however, the spindle looked ordinary and cheap: more like a lopsided top than my best hope of defeating the Queen’s enchantment.

  I’d imagined a daughter of the House of Cynwrig fighting with a sword, not stinging nettles and a spindle. But if this was my only weapon, I’d wield it.

  I looked back over the path to the old woman’s cottage. What would happen if she changed her mind and wanted the spindle back? I imagined her bending over me while I slept that night, gloved hands reaching . . .

  I gently placed the spindle in the satchel. Then I walked out to the curve of river where I’d submerged the weir. I upended the weir and dumped the fish inside it back into the river before strapping it to my back. There was no time to eat. I’d walk the last few hours of daylight and put as many leagues between me and the old woman as possible.

  It was time to save my brothers.

  Chapter 17

  My brothers needed clothes before the next week’s full moon, and I needed supplies for the coming winter. So I decided to travel through—rather than around—the small town of Etten, the last landmark before the hut at Cairwyn Lake.

  It wasn’t until I stood on a bluff overlooking Etten that I realized how much had changed. How much I’d changed. Two months ago, a carriage and armed escort would have brought me into the town. Trusted servants would have been sent to buy anything I desired and fetch it back to me.

  Now, I was alone—voiceless, defenseless—with only links of Mother’s belt to buy what I needed. Anyone who saw me would easily believe I’d lived out-of-doors for the past four weeks.

  It took nearly an hour to scrub myself clean and rebraid my hair. I repacked the satchel, leaving most of Mother’s belt links in it and putting only a few in my pocket slits. Then I attached the weir to the satchel and shrugged the satchel onto my shoulders.

  I was clean, but I didn’t look anything like the banished princess of Lacharra—and all but a small part of me was glad of it.

  The road through Etten was crowded with other travelers on their way to the market: a farmer leading a donkey laden with bulging burlap sacks, an old wagon filled with baskets and several stacked coops of various birds.

  The press was overwhelming after so many weeks alone. The stamp of horses’ hooves took me back to the courtyard in Roden. Travelers shouting to each other reminded me of my brothers calling to me from their cell in the dungeon. I could see the Queen before me, silhouetted in torchlight, even though the sun shone high above.

  It was a wicked trick for my mind to play on me. I walked toward the town square with tears at the back of my eyes and fury rising like fire in my chest: I’d lived that night once. Why did I have to keep seeing it again and again?

  I was slammed from behind and stumbled, nearly falling under the weight of my satchel. Something caught—or snatched—at my weir.

  The wolf men couldn’t have found me! They weren’t even looking for me!

  I ducked my head and darted forward, intent on escape, but when I glanced behind me, all I saw was a group of boys my age, laughing as if they’d never seen anything so funny as me scurrying away.

  I stopped and stared at them, all iron and ice.

  YOU don’t scare me, I thought. You aren’t the Queen. You aren’t her wolf men. You’re just spoiled, bored boys. Even if I had guards around me right now, you wouldn’t be worth the trouble of a beating.

  Sometimes, words show on our faces, even when we can’t speak them. The boys disappeared into the crowd, and I allowed myself one small smile.

  * * *

  And then I reached the square and the market that filled it.

  “Chawetties!” A woman walked by with a basket of meat pies on her head, a pouch of coins jingling at her waist. “Still-hot chawetties!”

  You don’t know who made them, cautioned Mael, or where.

  But Mael wasn’t the one with the empty belly.

  I chased the woman down. A minute later, I had a chawetty and several tin coins—change for one of the links of Mother’s belt.

  I savored the chawetty as I walked through the market, noting the different stands and the men and women who worked them. Within an hour, I’d discovered that there were three grocer’s stands where I could buy food, and only one where I could buy clothes for my brothers.

  But there were lots of spinners. Etten was a wool town—I should have guessed from all the sheep that filled the pastures that surrounded it. Hanks of dyed wool yarn hung like banners, and women wandered the market with distaff and drop spindle, busily spinning as they inspected the wares, the spindles hanging down to their knees like small birds hovering on a short leash. I followed one of the women while I finished my chawetty, watching to see what she did.

  Just as I was beginning to make sense of how she spun, she saw me. Her glare sent me scurrying away.

  And all t
he while, language swirled around me. I’d become used to being mute when I was alone. In Etten, I walked through a sea of conversations I could not join.

  “It’s robbery, I tell you, to ask so much for a—”

  “Have you seen the new chandler one street over?”

  “All the princes dead in one night—and the Queen herself had to give the news, wailing and tearing at her hair as she did. She loved them as her own, they say.”

  “Danavirian barbarians! Attacking Roden like that! I hear the widowed princess has shut herself in her rooms and not even the Queen can comfort her—”

  I turned to hear more of Tanwen, but the speaker had melted into the crowd. Still, Tanwen was alive! That was some good news, at least.

  The novelty of the market dimmed after that. The crowd pressed too close, and news of the castle—all of it lies—pressed closer.

  “Princess Andaryn attacked the Queen at the feast, and then word comes that she died at Roden too. No one’s said it outright, but some wonder if she let the Danavirian savages inside the gate at Roden.”

  How I longed to stand at the center of the square and shout what the Queen had done! But if I must be mute, I’d be sure that my brothers would live—and speak once they were themselves. That meant clothes and food and leaving Etten and its gossip as soon as possible.

  So I bought clothes for my brothers—and boys’ clothes for me—and a pack to put them in, along with a tin mug, a blanket, a wedge of cheese, and a small sack of barley. The flash of gold made up for having no voice. I had thought I’d hate giving away pieces of Mother’s belt. Instead, it felt like she was standing beside me, pointing to what I should buy, walking away with me if the price quoted was too high.

  Mid-afternoon, I passed the hen coops on my way out of the square.

  The chawetty had made me greedy. Suddenly, all I wanted were a few eggs to cook at my fire that night.

  I caught the farmer’s eye, pointed to a basket of eggs, and held up five fingers.

  “Five eggs?” he asked, wiping his hands on his burlap apron.

  I nodded.

  “Show me your money first.”

  I held up a link from Mother’s belt.

  The farmer squinted and held his hand out. “That real gold?”

  I wouldn’t let him hold it—he might not return it. Instead, I stepped forward and bit into the link, showing him the metal was soft enough to bend: real gold.

  He nodded. “Only five eggs, young mistress?”

  I smiled. Now I was a young mistress.

  “For another two links like that, you can have all the eggs you desire. I’ve a hen who will lay eggs every week.”

  The idea was tempting, but I had no way to carry the hen to the hut. I shook my head.

  “She’ll peck out her own food. Eat all the beetles from your bed and give you eggs in exchange.”

  I’d have eggs. And no bugs.

  It seemed like a dream.

  Which means that it is, warned dream-Cadan, ever the cynic.

  I held up my empty hands, showing I had no way to carry the hen away.

  “I’ll give you one of these burlap bags. She’ll travel just fine in it.”

  I crouched to peer down at the hen.

  She let loose a low, churling sound.

  I stepped back. If she was a dog, I’d have sworn she was growling!

  “She’s a harmless biddy,” argued the farmer, reaching inside her coop. “See?”

  The hen pecked at his hand, but he ignored it, stroking her head and under her beak. She raised her head, and I saw that she’d lost the feathers on her breast.

  I scowled at the farmer. I did not want a mean, half-naked hen!

  A chuckle.

  I turned to see a matron standing behind me. She hooked a finger, motioning me closer. “She’s broody, girl. Thinks she has chicks to hatch, but there’s nothing there except the stones she’s sitting on. That’s why the feathers are gone—she’s plucked them to keep the stone eggs warm. But those stone eggs will never hatch and she won’t lay new ones while she’s sitting on them . . . and there’s the problem.”

  “Morgyn!” bellowed the farmer. “Are you calling me a liar? This hen is one of my best layers!”

  The matron laughed and walked away. “Don’t take the hen unless you’re hoping for a good dinner, girl!”

  I crouched again to see the hen. She looked at me with one dark eye as if to warn me away from her eggs.

  The poor creature thought stones would hatch into chicks.

  And I hoped to defeat an enchantress with a spindle and stinging nettles.

  We were both expecting the impossible.

  I looked at the farmer and held up two fingers. Two links for everything.

  He laughed. “You may have her then!”

  A moment later, he tucked the real eggs and hen into a burlap bag, closed the bag over her head, and handed it to me. “Keep a loose hold on it so she can breathe while you travel. Hens fall asleep soon as it gets dark—even if it isn’t night—so she won’t give you any trouble when the bag is closed.”

  And so I became the owner of a hen and five eggs. After two streets, I opened the mouth of the bag and carefully peered in. She hunkered down on the eggs and blinked up at me, finally settling in the dark.

  I wanted to make soft, clucking sounds, to somehow tell her that she had nothing to fear.

  You want to talk to a hen, commented Cadan.

  I closed the mouth of the bag as guiltily as if he was there to see me. No, I—

  Then I jolted to a stop. One of the Queen’s guard stood farther down the narrow street.

  The old woman had called them wolf men, and at that moment, I believed it. He was tall and rawboned, his beard unkempt. Even from across the square, I could see his leather breastplate. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to see a leather breastplate again without wanting to turn and run.

  Don’t run, whispered Mael. He’ll know you’re prey for sure.

  And you will be prey if they discover you’re still alive. That was Aiden, speaking so steadily, so certainly, that I found a little courage.

  I ducked my head and stepped back slowly. I didn’t stop until my back was against a shop wall. The hen churled from her bag, as if she could sense my fear.

  I put a hand to the bag. Peace, you silly, broody hen. Peace! He’ll hear you.

  And then the guard looked up from across the square. I saw his brow crease, and he lifted his head as if scenting something.

  Scenting me.

  I ran.

  By the time I reached the far side of Etten, I was breathless. I forced myself to slow and match the pace of everyone leaving town. I’d only stand out if I kept running.

  But I didn’t feel any safer, no matter how much I traveled. I was sure the wolf man must have seen me and was trailing me.

  Calm yourself! soothed Gavyn. He’d have captured you by now if he was looking for you.

  Now there’s fine comfort, said Cadan. Keep reminding Ryn of someone hunting her as it gets dark.

  Alone, neither one of my brothers could have calmed me, but I distracted myself the rest of that afternoon by imagining their argument.

  That evening, I didn’t dare light a fire. Nor did I need to; my stomach was still full of the meat pie. But as I lay in the fading daylight, I jumped at every sound, certain it was the wolf man. How would I manage to stay calm when it was truly dark?

  Think of the hut. Think of four walls and a door that can shut out the night. Think of feeling safe inside it.

  It didn’t work. A sob caught at the back of my throat.

  The hen stood up in her open bag-nest and twisted her head in short, quick movements, taking in our small camp.

  A low, comforting roll of clucks.

  To my surprise, she stepped out of the burlap sack and onto my chest. Then she settled on me as if I was a clutch of eggs she was determined to hatch. I twisted a little, and she pecked at the air a few inches from my nose.

  I
didn’t speak hen, but the message was very clear: Be still.

  My breath grew more steady.

  I lifted a hand to touch her.

  A small cluck.

  Slowly, I rested my hand on her back. She didn’t move, only wiggled back and forth, leaning so that the featherless portion of her breast rested above my heart.

  Oh, she was warm! Or maybe it was that the night was so cold. But I began to feel just a little safe.

  You’re being comforted by a hen, Ryn.

  I was calm enough that I could imagine my brothers then, though it wouldn’t have taken much effort to figure out what Cadan would have said.

  I don’t care, I answered back. She’s warm and clucky.

  That was just to irritate my brothers.

  Clucky is NOT a word! chided Owain.

  Just for that, I said, I’ll call her Owain.

  I fell asleep to Owain’s shouts and everyone else’s laughter.

  Chapter 18

  Four days later, in the early afternoon, I found the hunting hut.

  No, I found its remains.

  My future home was a one-room ruin slumped at the edge of Cairwyn Lake. Half the roof and one of the walls were missing.

  And there was no door. No way to shut out the dark.

  I dropped my walking stick and sat down—shedding the weir, satchel, and pack full of clothes for my brothers and a little food for the winter. Finally, I opened the burlap sack so Owain-the-hen could hop out and forage for food.

  I buried my face in my hands.

  I imagined that I was back in my room, with its bed that was always warm and its balcony that looked out over the lakes that my mother had loved when she was alive. I imagined a fire crackling and food that Bronwen had prepared. My brothers crowded around me, teasing. I teased back, with words right there on my tongue and the freedom to speak them.

  I didn’t want to open my eyes.

  And then the words I’d thrown at the Queen came to me—rebuking me for sitting beside the hut’s ruins and feeling sorry for myself:

  We are the House of Cynwrig. We are the flight of swans bearing swords.

  I stood. I was Andaryn of the House of Cynwrig, and it was time to set my new home in order.