The Swans' War 1 - The One Kingdom (12 page)

THE ISLAND HAD ONCE BOASTED GREATER FORTIFICATIONS', LIKE much of the old kingdom after the partition, war had often found its way here. But it hadn't made the long journey, now, in many years, and the island's defenses had not been kept up, partly to save the cost.

Elise stood on the top of a high hill at the lake head, gazing south. She could see the island and its castle clearly, and all the other islands fading away to pale blue-greens as they meandered off into the distance. It was a long lake, more than a league, and she loved the way the hills and islands folded into one another, their colors growing softer and more muted as they dwindled toward the horizon, layer upon layer.

Her cousins lamented their isolation here, constantly pining for the inner principalities and duchies of the old kingdom, but Elise never complained. She thought the life her cousins dreamed of was frivolous and vapid, though perhaps she merely feared what would happen if the Wills made their way back into the center of the old realm.

Intrigue, she thought, perhaps even war.

There was enough intrigue here. Her uncle Menwyn saw to that.

She looked over at her maid and the lone guard who rode with her. Though they waited with little show of impatience, they were ready to go back, Elise knew. It seemed they could take a quick look at the scene, proclaim its beauty, and then leave. But Elise was prepared to sit here all day. She loved to watch the vista change. The moving light played across the scene, altering the mood from one moment to the next. One never knew what it would do. And look at those clouds rolling across the far horizon! She could watch them for hours. The shadow of a cloud flowed over the brocade hills, silent and dark. She watched it progress across the landscape like some shape-shifting creature. And what could such a creature seek! There was said to be a supernatural beast that dwelt within the lake itself—half fish, half horse, and white as a wave crest. When the wind blew it was often seen, or so people said, galloping among the breaking waves. But Elise had not seen it—at least she was not sure she had—but it was not for lack of looking. She sighed. Menwyn was right about one thing—she was a daydreamer. Her father claimed, though he always smiled when he said it, that this was man's highest calling, but she knew few others agreed. Of course, when you were a musician and composer famed across all the lands, you could make such claims about the value of daydreaming. Something resulted from it. She took up her pen again and, dipping it in ink, wrote in her book of days. Here, the world fades toward a horizon of clouds that rise up in whirls and furrows and cast themselves across the sky. Oh, what subtle plays of light among them— - shades of palest yellow and blue and a mauve so translucent your eye is not sure it's there. I sometimes think that the sea is just beyond the farthest hill, and the distant clouds are sea clouds, sailing landward, though of course this is impossible. The sea is many leagues off, unlike the sea of imagination which is right at hand. This could be it below me—a small hand of the ocean reaching far inland toward me. If I were not a Wills, caught up in all the ambitions of my family, would I be so drawn toward the world of the imagination? The world of art and artifice?

She closed her eyes and imagined the court of the old kingdom before her family and the Renné split the country over the succession. Almost, she could see herself there, among the gaiety, the intellectual life ... almost.

The sound of a horse called her back from the past, and she turned to find a man dismounting. He bore a wicker box such as minstrels used to carry their instruments, though if he were a minstrel he was either of noble birth or quite famed, for he was dressed in fine clothes and had the bearing and confidence of a man of property.

He bowed low toward Elise but addressed her maid.

"I have been sent from the castle to play for Lady Elise, if she will allow it," he said.

Elise smiled. Her father loved to surprise her.” She will," Elise answered, feeling suddenly that an interruption of her contemplation would be welcome.

The stranger took out his instrument, a beautifully made Faellute, and perched upon the end of the stone bench opposite Elise. Very quickly he tuned it and then turned to her.

"A firstborn son both fair and kind And a second son of different mind Taradynn and Tindamor Would live to bring their father woe."Elise knew the song immediately: the song of a younger prince who secretly murdered his brother to take the throne. Taradynn and Tindamor. Carral and Menwyn. Elise sat for a moment in stunned silence. How did he dare to play such a song for her? If Menwyn heard of it they would both have more trouble than they wished—especiafty this minstrel.” I do not know if you are more foolish or brave" she said, forcing control of her voice so that her words came out dipped and precise.” Did my father know you would play this song for me?" "Your father did not send me, lady, though I know and respect him " he said evenly, watching her reaction carefully. She shook her head in confusion.” Then what kind of madness... ?" Elise was at a loss for words. The minstrel tilted his head toward the lake.” Do you see the party riding up the eastern shore?" She ran her eye along the edge of the water, and there in the shadow of the wood she saw a dark line of riders.” The Prince of Innes comes to Braidon Castle, secretly. With him travels his handsome son. I will tell you honestly, lady, that if you are not made of stone you will find him much to your liking. But I have come to warn you. The young Prince no more controls the policy of his family than you make policy for the Wills. Compared to the old Prince, Menwyn is a fair and reasonable man. Do not be fooled by this prince's manner, which can be courtly and kind when needed. Within his own house he is a tyrant the likes of which you have never known. And he would bend you to his purpose, do not doubt it, for in that place you would have no allies but the young Prince, who does his father's bidding, however much he disdains to. That is what I have come to say." The man looked off toward the old watchtower behind them.” And why does this matter concern you?" He brought his serious gaze back to her.” It concerns every man. and woman who lives between the mountains," he said matter-of-factly. She turned her attention toward the party approaching through the trees, and suddenly she wanted to rush back to the castle lest some decision be made about her future while she was absent. Elise felt her hand come to her face unbidden.

"Will you ride back with me?" she said, her sounding very small and frail.

"I regret that I cannot accept your kind offer, my lady. You see, the Prince has a particular dislike of my art and it were better if f remained here for a few days until he is gone."She shook her head, rising from the bench, feeling both apprehensive and determined.” You haven't told me your name, sir minstrel," she said.

He rose quickly.” I regret to say, my lady, that any name I give you would not be true. I can make one up if you like. Or you might give me a name of your choosing.""Then I will call you Gwyden Dore, for the knight who posed as a minstrel to save fair Katlynn." She met his eye, as a well-bred lady should not.” But you should beware, Gwyden Dore, for your namesake perished in his deed.""So some songs tell, my lady, but still others say he escaped." The man smiled.” I far prefer the latter."She passed by him and the guard fetched her horse. Elise let herself be helped into the saddle, and then looked toward the minstrel, who bowed low.

The songs in which Gwyden Dore escaped also told that Lady Katlynn ran off with her rescuer. She took one last appraising look at this handsome player and wheeled her horse, setting off at a canter into the wood.

THE GARDEN OF BIRDS WAS HIDDEN WITHIN A BOWER CONCEALing a pool of lilies. About the edge of the pool, birds perched like flowers: tall herons, feathers fluttering in the breeze; gladioli cranes; blossom-bright kingfishers; the tiny, secretive herons of riverbanks. In the languid air above, swallows stitched delicate designs. Tuath dipped the oars silently and propelled herself another boat length, turning her small craft so that she might have another view. A pair of swans with cygnets in tow passed dose by, hoping for morsels. The sad flutelike notes of the sorcerer thrush fell like leaves.” I hear you, Tylyth," she whispered.” You are my favorite, yet. My secret love." Tuath turned her eyes again to the swallows, watching them weave, wondering what pattern they favored today. She narrowed her eyes and tried to see only the flight, imagining each swallow as a needle pulling invisible thread. What a gown that would make, she thought, but then tried to push all the thoughts from her mind. It was never clear what she saw—not consciously understood—yet there seemed to be a pattern, a design. It is only inspiration, her sister claimed, ritual. The swallows' flight means nothing. Yes, perhaps. But even so, she believed the swallows' flight was not random, any more than the plaiting of distinctive nests was accidental. Closing her eyes, Tuath tried to hold the flight of the swallows in her mind, searching for the feeling of yes— yes, that's if.... Sometimes she felt it here, in the garden, and had to hold it inside her until she came to the hall of weaving, avoiding everyone lest they speak and chase her precious revelation away. What torture that was, to feel something so hard-won slip away. When the yes came she pulled the boat quickly to shore, jumping lightly out and leaving the boat to look after itself. Keeping her eyes fixed firmly ahead, Tuath walked deliberately to the hall, looking at no one, raising her hand once to stop another from speaking. The epiphany wavered—the yes becoming a maybe. Tuath stopped where she was, closing her eyes, trying to recapture the flight of the swallows. There, yes, that was it.. . wasn't it?

She hurried on.

The last few yards she almost ran, tearing open the door and shutting herself quickly in, latching the door lesthervi-sion escape. A sigh sounded in the silence and muted light of the Weavers' Hall.

A moment later she found her sister standing on a head-high platform, her needle darting in and out, in and out, glinting in the light slanting through high windows. Tuath didn't stop to look at the tapestry but mounted the stairs to her place and set straight to vjoik. The first few stitches would tell. She closed her eyes to make them, the needle darting back and forth like a bird in flight.

They drank lull at a small table, gazing at the tapestry they made, wondering what the pattern would be.

"It's a strange design," Tuath's sister, Tannis, said.” Disturbing, really. Sometimes, when I look at it, I shudder.""Yes. I have strange dreams about it. The man before the gate—the one bearing the other up—he turns to meet my eyes and I feel a dread creep over me, a fear like I have never known.” She did shiver then.” I would give it up but for Nann."Tuath wondered at the men before the enormous gate. They were in darkness or deep shadow—one man limp, his arm and head hanging down unnaturally, the other bearing him in his arms.

Tannis poured them more tull, her strong, dusky hands lifting the heavy pot with ease. Tuath always marveled that these hands could do such delicate work.

They were twins, Tannis and Tuath, one dark, one light. They had been born of the same mother on the same night. Tannis raven haired and Fael-eyed. Tuath light as snow, eyes like ice reflecting a pale blue sky, skin waxen white revealing the delicate. blue branchings beneath. Rivers and streams of blood. Bruises like estuaries.

One dark and solid, like words on the page, the other ghostly, almost insubstantial, yet sisters, born within the same hour.” I would give it up as well," Tannis said, "if I could ... but it haunts me like no other we've done. I look at it sometimes and wish I'd never been born a vision weaver." "Yes, and it has disturbed Nann even more. She tries to hide it, but I can tell. It shows in her face. I'm sure she comes here at night to puzzle over it. Perhaps she dreams of it as well." Nann helped Rath into the Weavers' Hall, his weight distributed between her arm and his cane, almost none of it, apparently, on his feet. He has grown so feeble, she thought. Now when we need him most. A chair had been set for him, padded with cushions, a blanket left to cover his thin legs. Nann wasn't quite strong enough to lower him to the chair, and he dropped the last handsbreadth, bouncing like a doll. The old man closed his eyes for a moment, and remained very still.” Rath ... ?" He nodded his head, though his eyes remained closed, his jaw clamped shut.” All right," he whispered, his voice so soft she could barely hear it. His eyes opened, clouded with age, like overcast skies. Nann stepped out of his way but stayed nearby. The old man leaned forward on his cane, squinting, pressing a crooked finger into the corner of one eye. Two hundred candles had been lit to illuminate the tapestry. Tannis and Tuath would be dismayed to hear it, for the smoke would ruin the colors, but there was no way to be sure Rath would be well enough to view it by daylight.Who knew what might befall him by morning? She watched him, wondering what he would see. He stretched his thin neck forward—like a baby bird's, she thought. The shape of his bald head reinforced this impression. Even for a Fael he was dark skinned, the result of his years of traveling beneath the sun, gathering stories and lore. She found it odd to think that this tiny man before her was so great among her people. He looked like a candle flame about to flicker out.

Rath stared for a long time at the tapestry, saying nothing, his thin face set in its habitual scowl. Finally he stamped his cane on the floor—a pitiful tap.” Why wasn't I shown this before?" he demanded, his wisp of a voice rasping in the almost empty room.

"We thought the pattern too incomplete until now." "I'm not so blind! It is clear as clear and likely has been so for days—longer!" He lifted his cane in one bony hand and pointed it shakily at the figures stitched before the gate.” Caibre," he said, then aimed it toward the man stepping out of the trees.” Sainth," he said. And finally at the woman who took shape from the river.” Sianon."Nann closed her eyes. They were names she knew. Names out of stories and legends. Names their story finders had heard whispered when the Fael first stepped ashore in the land between the mountains. The winds knew those names then, and the rivers and streams. Sorcerers, they were said to have been, Sainth, Caibre, and Sianon: the children of Wyrr, the oldest enchanter of them all. Wyrr, who gathered the knowledge of all who died, and who went into the river in the end, joining his spirit to the water's.

What are the secret branches of the river? The dreams of Wyrr.

"How can you be sure?"

The old man lifted his cane again.” There, in the clouds, a black swan and in its shadow another. The devices of Wyrr, who placed the first swan on his banner when Caibre was born. The second, a white swan, for the birth of Sainth. The third, another black swan, was for Sianon. But the white swan disappeared from Wyrr's banner, some tales say, be-

cause Sainth fought bitterly with his father, for they were too much alike, father and second son." "But who is the fourth?" Nann said, pointing, almost afraid to ask.” What?" "The other man, there, before the great gate." Rath bent forward again, leaning heavily on his cane.” I don't know," he said at last.” But the gate ... That is Death's gate." He sat back in his chair, and covered his eyes with one hand for a moment. Nann looked at the old man in pity, for he was in sight of that gate even now. She was sure Rath's head was spinning. It was too much for him—even the short walk, the few steps, and now this.” I've forgotten the story," Nann said when Rath opened his eyes again.” Their father offered them gifts, gifts of their own choosing... ?" Rath nodded.” Wyrr was like many fathers; though he was wise, he could see only good in his own children. When he grew old he offered them gifts—of their own choosing, as you say. Caibre, the eldest, wanted to be a greater warrior than he already was, a leader of men. 'Let men fear and obey me,' he said.” Sainth, the second son, did not care for war but loved music and learning. He wished that he might see all the world.” Sianon, the youngest, and Caibre's rival for their father's affections, said that she, too, would be a great warrior, but men would follow her and do her bidding out of love." Rath pressed three fingers to the center of his forehead. He was still for a moment, clearly in pain, and then he continued without lowering his hand.” Wyrr warned his children that such gifts would not come without price, and what this price might be he could not predict, but they all chose to take this risk.” And so it came about that Caibre was feared and obeyed just as he'd wished, but he was no longer master of himself. Once he had begun a thing he could not give it up. He would besiege a castle until his entire army had been spent, then he would raise another army and take it up again. There was no retreat for Caibre. It was a word without meaning to him.” Sainth was given the ability to travel the world by secret paths that only he could find, but no place was home to him, no woman fair enough to be his bride—for there might always be another fairer—and so he wandered, joyfully at first, but later in sorrow.

"Both women and men loved Sianon and would do anything to gain her favor, but she loved none in return. One man was much like another to her, and even toward her own children she felt nothing. Only her brother Sainth did she love, but this was forbidden.""Didn't they destroy one another in the end?" Nann asked.

Rath nodded, still pressing the fingers to his brow.” Yes. Wyrr went finally into the river with all that he knew, and Caibre and Sianon made great kingdoms upon either shore. Often they warred, for they hated each other, but always Sainth would come between them and peace would be restored. In the end, though, Caibre could not give up the war, and he killed Sainth when he came suing for peace. And though Sianon warned Caibre that it would be his own death to kill her, he did not care, his hatred for her was that great. They fought a great battle on an island in the middle of the River Wyrr, and weakened from their wounds, both were lost when the fortess collapsed. But it is said they too went into the river in the end, and it sustained them, that they did not truly die but became nagar and dwelt in some netherworld between death and life, sustained by their father's love ... until now."Nann stood looking at the tapestry lit by two hundred candles. She pulled a chair near and sat down. She felt as weak as Rath suddenly. For a moment Nann stared at the table before them.” We guessed these might be sorcerers—or I believed that, at least—but we never thought for a moment that they could be the children of Wyrr. We sent Cynddl to travel the river, seeking the stories of sorcerers. We did not realize ..." she said softly.” Is it really possible? Perhaps Tannis and Tuath are mistaken?"Rath removed his hand from his brow and looked up, the clouds in his eyes glowing in the candlelight. His thin neck quivered a little as he lifted his head to examine the tapestry again.

"Possible? Yes. Blame the Knights of the Vow for that. It was they who desired the gifts of the children of Wyrr, warriors that they were." His head slumped down, his neck weak as a baby's.” You've sent my prize pupil into great danger," he said, "and he likely does not even know it. Poor Cynddl! If you had only sent word to me sooner ..."Nann closed her eyes for a moment, but the man before the gate stared at her all the same.

"Shall I take you back?" Nann asked.

"No, help me up. I will travel to the River Wynnd."Nann took hold of his offered arm.” But what will you do there?" "I will taste the waters," he said, "and see if this can be true."