If the brigand king thought to leave his wife and youngest son in misery, he erred in his judgment. Relieved of the prospect of her husband’s presence, the lady blossomed anew. She began to smile and the sparkle returned to her eyes. She indulged her youngest son, who she named Trymman in her father’s memory. She taught him to read and to write, and told him the tales of her family and her people, sharing with him all the lore she had ever known.
The brigand turned all his energies to training his eleven sons in warfare, and in bedding his new mistress, the village witch, with enthusiasm. That woman dared him to get her with child, hinting that his vigor was insufficient—in truth, she took a potion to prevent any conception and wished only to have the brigand’s attention and favor. She suspected that if he turned her out of his bed for any reason, she would lose her influence over him. Power, once tasted, is impossible for some to relinquish: in that, the witch and the mercenary were similar.
Seven years had passed when Trymman noticed his mother weeping on the first day of spring. The castle should have been filled with spring sunlight, the calls of birds and the first blooms on the trees. People should have been singing and thinking of new loves, but there was a pall upon the land. The winter had been hard. The crops the previous year had been taken by pestilence. The brigand king’s temper was foul and blood had flowed on the floor of the hall more than once. There was a sense of pending doom, as if a tide turned against them all, and the son thought his mother wept for fear.
“No, my love,” she said, wiping her tears. “I weep because I never bore a daughter and that was always my fondest wish. It was once said to me that if I should have a daughter, she would be blessed beyond all others.” Trymman protested that she still might bear another child, but his mother shook her head. “My womb shrivels, my son. By winter, I will not be able to conceive again.” She sighed and smiled for him, framing his face in her hands and kissing his brow. “But I am foolish and greedy in this yearning, for I have the gift of you to light my days.”
Trymman was troubled to see his mother unhappy, for he loved her dearly. Indeed, he had no other soul to love. He wanted his mother to have her desire and be happy, though there was little enough he could do. Unbeknownst to the queen, the swan-prince still admired her. He had often visited the palace and village in his human form but disguised his royal status, simply to look upon her. He was troubled that the brigand king was creating eleven more villains like himself. He was more troubled that the lady he loved and admired was a captive in her own chamber. When he heard the queen weep one night, the swan-prince vowed to see her happy, if it was the last thing he did. He bribed a maid and learned the truth of the queen’s desire. Once he knew he could give her joy, he couldn’t stay away any longer.
Trymman thought he dreamed when he saw the beautiful swan fly through the window of the chamber at sunset one night and land gracefully in the middle of his mother’s chamber. The bird was massive and its feathers shone with a radiance that made Trymman want to touch them. The bird turned to look at him, as if it would talk, then there was a shimmer of blue. When the light faded, a man stood before him and the swan was nowhere to be seen.
The man was tall and handsome, with blond hair that hung past his shoulders and eyes of vivid blue. He was dressed simply but in garments of good quality, and there was a silver ring on his finger with a large clear stone set in it. That stone shone with an inner fire that fascinated the boy. The stranger’s smile was kindly and Trymman wasn’t afraid of him at all. The man touched his finger to his lips, requesting the boy’s silence and complicity. At the boy’s nod of agreement—for he had learned the merit of secrecy from the cradle—the man crouched down and beckoned. Trymman leaned close as the man whispered that he should run to the kitchens and eat his fill, that there were stairs to the right that no one used any longer.
Before Trymman could argue that the door was secured, the man glanced toward it and the boy heard the tumblers in the lock. He crossed the room to discover that he was free to leave the chamber. He looked back in astonishment at the man, still crouched down where he had stood. The man smiled and gestured to him to go. Trymman gladly followed his bidding, for he had always yearned for the adventure of exploring the palace. He glanced back from the threshold to see the man approaching his mother’s bed. The stranger’s expression was tender as he looked down at the sleeping queen, and Trymman knew all would be well. Then the door closed, seeming with a will of its own, and Trymman heard the lock turn again.
By the time he had avoided the cook, raided the larder, eaten his spoils, explored the palace, fetched more from the kitchen for his mother and returned to the chamber, the moon was high in the sky. To his disappointment the stranger was gone and the chamber door was standing ajar again. When Trymman entered the room, the door swung closed behind him, then audibly locked.
But he had been on an adventure and he had brought back as much food as he had been able to carry. His mother slept with a smile upon her lips, a smile of such tranquility and beauty that Trymman could only wonder what had happened in his absence.
Neither of them knew that the stranger also visited the witch and the brigand. He looked upon them while they slept in her hut, then poured out the tonic the witch drank each day to ensure that she didn’t conceive. The stranger put plain water in the bottle instead and replaced it, as if it had never been disturbed.
The stranger came three times, at regular intervals, though Trymman and his mother never spoke of him in his absence. On his third visit, he gave the queen the ring that was on his finger, a silver ring graced with that large gleaming stone. The swan prince’s ring was too large for his lady’s hand, but she wore it on a chain around her neck and often closed her fist around it as she slept. By midwinter, the queen’s belly rounded and she wept with joy when she told her youngest son that he was going to have another sibling. She bade him keep it secret from the brigand king, for he had not visited her bed in years and he would know it was not his child.
The brigand king’s attention was occupied, though. He shouted with pleasure when he told his men that he had bested the witch’s dare and gotten a child upon her—the stores of ale were deeply diminished that night in the hall as the men celebrated with the brigand king. The witch, however, was less pleased. Not only did she fear that the brigand’s attention would stray from her and she would lose influence, but she knew she would have to pay a debt she had never anticipated would come due. The tonic she drank to keep from conceiving had been created by a great Fae sorceress, Maeve. The price for the tonic was that the witch would have to surrender any child she conceived to Maeve. She had thought this wager a jest, since the tonic would ensure that she didn’t bear a child, but now she fretted about the fate of the babe in her womb. She knew enough of Maeve to doubt that the Fae sorceress had any kind plan for the child. She had given her word, though, and she knew that Maeve would collect. Her fears affected her pregnancy, for her stomach twisted and turned, she slept little and she ate poorly.
On midsummer’s day, wife and whore labored in unison, though none outside the queen’s chamber knew of her condition. The queen delivered of the daughter she had always desired, a girl of radiant beauty with a rare light in her eyes. Her hair was as fair as the moonlight, her eyes were as blue as a robin’s egg, and she was both delicate and lovely. Her mother and the youngest brother looked upon her with awe.