A Throne of Swans Read online

  ‘The situation is causing a certain amount of political friction with Brithys. But I will do my best.’ He picks up a lump of red quartz that serves as a paperweight, turning it over and over in his long, thin fingers. ‘It would still be as well for you to take an adviser to court, in addition to your servants.’

  ‘But why?’ I turn away to pace the room. ‘I’ve studied hard, my lord. I’ve learned everything about Atratys that you or my father would teach me. Spent more hours than I can remember watching him deal with treaties and land disputes. Am I not qualified to represent my dominion?’

  ‘I’m not questioning your ability, Your Grace. You know Atratys. But you do not know the court.’

  I can’t argue with him on that point.

  Lancelin clears his throat. ‘Do you remember meeting my son, Lucien?’

  I have a very vague memory of gangly awkwardness and dark hair, but I can bring no other image to mind. Lucien has never lived at Merl, but he visited a few times while my mother was alive; I must have been about nine when I last saw him. ‘A little.’

  ‘After spending three years at the Citadel, he was sent to Frianland as part of our diplomatic mission.’ The steward’s stooped back straightens a little. ‘He has a gift for languages, it seems. But he has now been released from service and will return home shortly. I’ll send for him if you wish. Lucien knows the ways of the court. He knows who to trust and who is best avoided. You may even appoint him your clerk, to give his position formal status. I’m sure he will be happy to accompany Your Grace.’

  And I am equally sure that he will not be happy at all. Despite my inability to picture him, I have a sudden, strong recollection of at least one outburst of rage. The Lucien of my memory does not seem especially … biddable. But perhaps the last eight years have mellowed him. ‘Very well. I will take Lucien, and Letya. As to what clothes and so on –’

  ‘Your Grace may leave the arrangements to me. I suggest …’ Lancelin plucks a notebook from his pocket and flicks through the pages. ‘I suggest that you leave the day after your eighteenth birthday. That will give us five or six weeks to prepare – the minimum necessary, I would say – and you should arrive just after the midsummer celebrations. Assuming …’ he hesitates for the merest fraction of a breath, ‘that you are proposing to go by coach.’

  Unless I suddenly recover my ability to fly, we both know a coach is the only way I’ll reach the Citadel.

  ‘Yes. That is exactly what I’m proposing.’ I speak firmly, hoping this is the last I will hear on the matter.

  The next three weeks pass in a flurry of appointments: with dressmakers, dancing instructors, weapons masters. Over a year has passed since my last formal lesson in wielding a sword; as unlikely as it is that I will be required to use a blade, I choose not go to court unprepared, and spend hours working on my riposte. Any time not spent brushing up my skills is taken up by Lord Lancelin, hurrying through as much estate business as possible, any decision that might need my authorisation. I have to meet tenants, arbitrate disputes between minor lords and sign trade agreements. There is no spare moment for riding or reading. No time for worrying about leaving my home, about the court or about how I’m going to get there. But finally, one afternoon when the sunlight is glinting and dancing on the surface of the estuary below the castle, and the swifts are chasing each other about the battlements, I rebel.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  The dressmaker kneeling by my feet, pinning the hem of a lilac satin over-gown, glances up. ‘But we’re not finished, Protector. There’s still the grey silk after this one, and then –’

  ‘It can wait until tomorrow.’ I gesture to one of the maids hovering nearby. ‘Find Letya, tell her I’d like to go riding. And get me some comfortable clothes.’ Thirty minutes later I am hurrying downstairs to the stables, in a baggy, faded old dress with coarse leggings underneath, my hair tucked up into a wide-brimmed hat like the countrywomen wear for working in the fields, and the prospect of at least a couple of hours of freedom ahead of me.

  Letya is waiting just inside the main gate of the castle and brings her horse into step with mine. There’s no need for me to speak: my friend knows when I wish to be silent. She’s only a year older than me, and practically grew up with me. We even learned to ride together on the horses that carry us now. Animals on the whole are nervous around shape-shifters. They find our presence, even in human form, uncomfortable. But Henga and Vasta were introduced to me when they were too young to know any better, and Henga is used to the leather caparison she has to wear beneath her saddle to protect her hide. For perhaps an hour and a half, Letya and I ride contentedly through the maze of narrow lanes that thread the fields between sea, river and hills. But as the air grows warmer and more still, filled with the buzz and chirp of insects, the tall hedgerows either side of the path seem to close in on me.

  ‘I need some space. Let’s go to the beach.’

  Letya hesitates. ‘The beach? The one past the caves?’

  ‘Obviously. What other beach is there nearby?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea …’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well –’ she frowns down at her saddle, fiddling with a lock of blonde hair that has escaped from her hat – ‘there have been rumours about cows going missing from the farms over that way. And one of the farm-hands. And then Fris told me that her cousin’s friend was looking for moon-clams on that beach one night a few weeks ago and she heard this terrible, unearthly –’

  ‘Enough.’ I hold up a hand. ‘I don’t care what my maidservant’s cousin’s friend thinks she heard. And you should know better than to listen to gossip.’

  ‘But the beach could be dangerous …’ My glare must be effective, because my companion falls silent and screws her mouth up into a pout. Still, when I turn Henga’s head towards the beach, she sighs and follows me.

  By the time we get there – Letya, for once, has not spent the intervening minutes commenting on my reckless indifference to endangering my life – the low tide has exposed a wide expanse of black sand. I can feel the heat rising from the ground, but there is a breeze here, creaming the distant sea into a mass of white-crested waves. We set off, racing to the end of the beach, to where the sand tapers away and the land begins to rise into the cliffs that I see from my bedroom window.

  Letya has the lighter horse and she accelerates quickly, glancing back to smirk at me over her shoulder. But I ride harder. Soon I draw level, then overtake. Still, it’s only a narrow lead. So I lean low over Henga’s neck, tightening my knees a little around her girth, urging her forward as loose strands of hair whip around my face. Her hoofs strike the hard, damp sand and every forward plunge jars my whole frame, but I don’t care; the spar of rock that marks the end of the beach is so close now. Almost close enough for me to jump.

  Faster now, Henga. Faster –

  Henga bucks and twists and rips the reins from my hands, and there’s space surrounding me, and salt spray …

  The force of my landing drives the wind out of my lungs, sends stars wheeling across the blackness inside my eyelids.

  Silence. Until –

  Until I gasp, sucking in air, and the world comes back again.

  ‘Aderyn?’

  Every muscle and bone in my body throbs. When I open my eyes, Letya is crouching above me, her face white. ‘Aderyn, are you hurt?’

  ‘Um …’ I flex my fingers and toes. ‘Just bruised, I think.’ The ache in my shoulder makes me flinch. ‘What happened?’

  ‘A sand mole. It shot up right in front of Henga, but I don’t think she’s injured.’ A bit of luck, that – sand moles have fangs as long as my hand. Letya is scanning the ground anxiously. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have come here. And what is Lord Lancelin going to say to me, when he finds out?’

  I sit up, wait for the dizziness to pass and try to stand. Too quickly – a bolt of pain shoots the length of my leg and sends me sprawling.

  ‘Aderyn …’ Letya holds out he
r hands. ‘Here, let me help you.’

  I shake my head. Letya is my best friend – my only friend, in truth – but she is flightless. One of the ruled, not one of the rulers, brought to Merl to be my attendant after my mother died. And I cannot safely touch her. Anything but the lightest brush of my skin against hers could hurt her. ‘No. Not unless you have some spare gloves.’

  My companion stiffens and huffs with irritation. ‘Of course I do.’ She pulls a pair of gloves from her pocket and drops them into my lap. ‘Your Grace.’

  I ignore her sudden attack of formality and drag them on. ‘May I?’

  ‘Yes! Just hurry up.’

  I take hold of her gloved hands, she pulls me upright and, though I’m gritting my teeth with pain, I manage to limp to a large flattish rock nearby.

  ‘I’ll get help.’ Letya wags a finger at me. ‘Don’t move, Aderyn, please. I’m going to be in enough trouble as it is.’

  An unnecessary injunction; other parts of me are beginning to hurt almost as much as my leg. Letya and the horses are soon out of sight, so I switch my attention to the sea. The tide has turned. I try to distract myself from the pain by counting the seconds between each ebb and flow, thinking about the phases of the moon and the tidal bore on the River Rythe, in the west of our dominion; my father took me to see it once, many years ago. I don’t notice the heavy grey clouds creeping across the sky, and the first fat drops of rain take me by surprise. There’s still no sign of Letya. No sign of anything much: the beach seems oddly quiet, missing the usual flocks of sandpipers and true gulls. Wincing, I shift position, wondering where the birds have gone, wondering whether the sea will reach this rock before my rescuers –

  Shock jolts me back to the present. To the inexplicable, impossible solidity of a rock dragon, lurking in the cool darkness at the foot of the cliff, its marbled grey-and-white scales blending into the background.

  I hold my breath. Try not to blink.

  Perhaps the creature hasn’t seen me: its yellow eyes are sunken, rheumy, and it twists its head as if it can’t quite focus. It looks old, and more than half starved. But it could still crush me. Or rip me to shreds. Even its blood is toxic, supposedly. And yet … The creature stirs in the shadows, and the faint chime of metal on metal tells me my eyes aren’t deceiving me. Someone has put an iron collar around the dragon’s neck; a broken length of chain dangles towards the ground.

  The path to the top of the cliffs is about five wing-spans away. Maybe I could crawl. Or maybe … Maybe I could transform. That’s what I should try to do. I have no weapon. The dragon’s scales are doubtless too thick for the creature to be hurt by my touch while I’m in human form. But as a swan, the power that runs beneath my skin is hugely magnified. And of course, I could fly away –

  Too late. The sun breaks through the clouds, lighting up the rock on which I’m perched. The dragon sees me. Drops forward into a crouch. And as it begins thundering across the sand, and I sit there, paralysed by fear, some part of my brain starts screaming at me, cursing my own stupidity: would I really prefer to die here than shift my shape?

  Apparently so. As the creature bears down on me I can do nothing but stare, mesmerised, at the strands of saliva dripping in anticipation from its huge jaws –

  The black-feathered bird – a rook or a crow, I think – drops out of nowhere. Not a true crow – the bird’s massive wing-span, the size of its outstretched claws, proclaim it to be a shape-shifter. The dragon feels the force of the crow’s approach and skids round, bellowing in discomfort seconds before the crow first rakes its talons across the creature’s back. Again and again the shape-shifter strikes, gouging the dragon’s eyes, tearing its armoured hide, while the dragon snaps its jaws in vain, closing only on empty space. As the air fills with a mist of blood and the dragon’s screams get louder and louder, I cover my ears and screw my eyes shut –

  A thump – the earth shakes – followed by silence.

  ‘You can open your eyes now.’ The voice of a young man. But not one I recognise, even when I look at him. He’s walking towards me, his feet stained red. I switch my gaze carefully to his upper half and I’m surprised – and embarrassed – by a flutter of admiration in the pit of my stomach. The boy’s shoulders are broad, his chest and arms contoured: the result of much time on the wing, despite the fact that he can only be a little older than me. He’s pale, for a member of one of the corvid families. But his hair and his eyes are a deep, iridescent blue-black. When he draws nearer, I see that there’s an arrogance to his expression, as if he is well aware of his worth. ‘Are you injured?’

  ‘My horse threw me, and my leg –’

  ‘Stay completely still.’ Without asking he rips two wide strips of fabric from the bottom of my dress and wraps them around his hands. Then he starts running his fingers down my injured leg, carefully avoiding the exposed flesh of my ankle; he takes me for one of the flightless, who would be damaged by his touch. Blood burns beneath my skin.

  ‘Stop it.’

  He ignores my request. ‘Can you move your foot?’

  ‘A little. And I order you to stop touching me.’

  ‘Order me?’ There is a definite edge to his voice.

  I straighten up as much as I can, given my aching muscles. ‘I am the Protector of Atratys, and you’re on my land.’

  ‘You’re the Protector?’ He sits back on his heels, looking me slowly up and down. ‘A Protector who is completely unattended? Who wears homespun and gloves like a servant?’ He laughs – his face softens, for a moment – and shakes his head. ‘If you’re the Protector of Atratys, I’m a princess. Perhaps you’re a liar, or perhaps you’re concussed. Either way, you need to move from here: the tide is coming in. Be careful not to touch me.’

  Ignoring my protests, he slides his arms beneath me, holding me out away from his chest as if I weigh no more than a bundle of feathers, and carries me up onto the tumbled boulders at the edge of the beach. From here I can see the castle, red-walled in the afternoon sun. Part of me wants to keep arguing with him, but I’m starting to feel sick, I’ve got sand in my hair and inside my clothes and somewhere along the way I’ve managed to lose a shoe. I really just need him to go away so I can cry in peace.

  The boy is watching me. ‘I’ll send someone down from the castle to make sure you get home. You’re welcome, by the way.’ He gestures to the carcass of the rock dragon.

  I can’t repress a shudder. ‘Thank you, Master Crow.’

  ‘I’m not a crow. I’m a raven.’ He grunts and pushes his hair out of his eyes. ‘I’d like to know who managed to chain up a rock dragon. And why. And where it came from – they don’t even breed around here.’ Perhaps he takes my silence for fear, because he adds, ‘Don’t worry: you’re not in trouble. No one is going to blame a child.’

  A child? I open my mouth to reply, but he has already turned away and is climbing the path towards the top of the cliffs.

  My tears have dried by the time Letya returns down the same path with servants and a doctor, but she stops short when she sees me and puts her hands on her hips. ‘You were supposed to stay still! Look at the state of you. And bleeding too.’ She gestures to the side of my head, then spots the dead dragon. Her eyes widen. ‘What in the Firebird’s name …?’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’ I put my fingertips to my head; sure enough, my earlobe is tacky with congealing blood. ‘Just remember you’re my friend, not my nursemaid. Or my bodyguard.’

  Letya shoots me a long look. ‘I’m your paid companion. The lord steward pays me to keep you company and to wait on you. I have certain … responsibilities.’

  ‘So, you wouldn’t – Ouch!’

  The doctor stops prodding my leg. ‘You’ve sprained your ankle, Your Grace. Quite badly, I’m afraid.’ She gestures to two servants, who are waiting nearby with a sedan chair.

  Once I’m settled I turn back to Letya. ‘Do you think I look like a child?’

  ‘What?’ She frowns, confused. ‘Of course not. Though …’
>
  I raise my eyebrows, waiting.

  ‘I suppose you do look quite young, dressed in those clothes. And covered in dirt. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Would you really not come riding with me if Lord Lancelin didn’t pay you?’

  My paid companion crosses her arms and tilts her head. ‘Well, I probably would. I’ve grown quite fond of you over the last five years. Besides, there’s a certain entertainment to be gained from watching you risk your neck on an almost weekly basis.’

  I’ve never talked to Letya about why I have to take such risks, but I suspect she understands. ‘I love you too, Letya. I’ll love you even more if we can keep this a secret from Lord Lancelin.’

  She chuckles, a little reluctantly. ‘He won’t hear of it from me.’ But her gaze returns to the dragon carcass. ‘Did you kill it? Or did someone –’

  ‘It died. It was old, I suppose.’ A wave of nausea makes my head spin; I sink back into the cushions behind me, glad of an excuse to end the conversation. I don’t want to talk about the raven boy. I don’t want to think about his identity, or whether I’m ever going to see him again.

  Please let him not be who I think he might be. Please …

  Two

  For the next three days I keep to my rooms, doing as the physician orders, nursing my bruised ribs and swollen ankle. I do not tell Lord Lancelin what happened, and he does not ask me about it. I wonder if he’s trying to make a point: at the Silver Citadel I won’t have the freedom to go where I like or wear what I like. Left in peace, I spend some of my time working through the various letters and petitions that Lancelin gives me. But every time my attention wavers I am back on the beach, watching the rock dragon, wondering where it came from and who could have wanted or needed to fasten an iron collar around its neck. How, indeed, such a thing was even possible. I turn the problem over and over until my head aches.