She’d joined a flock of white swans which were flying in a V, as if that distant lake was their destination. He realized it was early in the day wherever they were as the sky was rosy in one direction. He reached the flock of swans and matched his pace to theirs, intrigued that he could distinguish Rania from the others.
There were eight swans, nine including Rania. The others were larger birds and he sensed that they were male. She was smaller and more delicately built, plus there was a luminous shine to her feathers.
All of the swans were pure white, with yellow beaks tipped in black. The wind whistled through their wings as they flew, and Hadrian found it a soothing sound. He knew they were watching him, and he hoped his gleaming dragon scales met with approval. They were graceful and beautiful, and more elegant than dragons.
As they approached the lake, the lead swan made a low call that sounded like houp-houp to Hadrian and he guessed that the flock were being given directions. That lead swan led the flock to descend, and they followed so elegantly that their flight might have been choreographed. They landed on an island in the middle of the lake. There was no sign of humanity.
There were rushes surrounding the island and he heard the croak of frogs. The air was damp and the ground flecked with dew. The swans landed, then immediately turned to confront Hadrian. He understood that he was an outsider. Rania landed and shifted shape, the other swans forming a barrier between her and Hadrian. Hadrian shifted shape, sensing that a negotiation would be better than a fight.
The glow of the firestorm shone white between himself and Rania, competing with the light of the morning sun. The swans looked between them and at the light, and he had the sense they discussed it all.
“Where are we?” he asked.
Rania looked around, the wind lifting her hair. “Halfway to the Ukraine.”
The swan that had been in the lead came toward Hadrian, head down and wings spread as he hissed in defense of Rania. The swan was almost as tall as Hadrian and much wider with his wings up.
Hadrian suddenly realized who they had to be. “Your brothers,” he guessed and Rania smiled.
“Yes, the ones who aren’t captive in Fae. I thought we should find out what they know.” She nodded. “I like to learn as much as possible when planning an attack.”
It was a good strategy.
“Edred?” Hadrian guessed. The swan hissed then snapped. Hadrian took a step back. “I hope he’s better looking in his other form.” Edred didn’t look amused.
Rania didn’t smile either. “They can’t shift, remember. They’re cursed to be swans.”
“And when the curse is broken, they’ll be mortal men again?”
Rania nodded.
Edred came closer, eyes glinting, and hissed at Hadrian again, punctuating that with a snap of his beak. “How about you do the talking?” Hadrian suggested to Rania and she laughed.
Then she raised her hands, shimmered blue, shifted shape, and all he could do was watch. He didn’t feel powerless, though. He felt like they were each working with their strengths to solve their situation together, and he liked that a lot.
He was winning the trust of the swan maiden, just as the prophecy said, and he liked the implication of that even better.
“With a swan, you want to peel away the skin carefully,” the head cook of the Fae informed his assistant. They were trudging toward the cage where the Dark Queen had trapped her victims, and he was planning the feast that would result. It was twilight, because it was always twilight in Fae, and there were no stars overhead. There never were. Behind them, the court was carousing as usual, the music lilting and the mead flowing. He wanted to get this job done and head back to the party. “Then you save it until after the bird is roasted to perfection. Finally, you wrap the roasted bird in its feathers again for the presentation to the queen.”
“Why?”
The cook shook his head. No matter how long Tink served him, that Fae just didn’t learn much of anything. Tink was strong and bigger than most, he was willing to work long and hard, but the cook didn’t think he’d ever met a creature so dumb. “Because it looks better. It’s fancy.”
Tink frowned and scratched his ear. There was a purple mark there, like a bruise—except the Fae didn’t get bruises. A wine stain maybe. But what was it doing on his ear? “But you can’t eat feathers. No one can.”
“No one wants to,” the cook explained, seeing that Tink was still confused. “Think of it like wrapping on a gift.”
“I like gifts,” Tink confided.
“Everyone does, even the Dark Queen. Especially the Dark Queen. And this way, she can unwrap her dinner, like a surprise.”
Tink’s brow furrowed. “But it’s not a surprise. Underneath the swan skin, there will be a swan.” He blinked in confusion. He scratched that ear a bit more and to the cook’s surprise, the ear became entirely purple.
“What’s wrong with your ear?” he demanded.
It was a normal ear for a Fae, a bit less pointed than the most attractive ones, but perfectly serviceable. The color, though, was distinctly odd. If anything, Fae skin tended toward brown hues or the greens of the forest, maybe the silvery grey of tree bark—but never purple.
“My ear?” Tink echoed and scratched it again. “It’s itchy.” His claim made no sense.
It made even less sense that the ear fell right off.
They stopped together and stared down at it on the heath, both watching as the ear shriveled and curled. It looked like a dried leaf before it crumbled to dust and disappeared. The cook hadn’t smelled that scent of forest floor in a long time and he looked around, wondering what was happening to the magick.
Everything looked normal, at least at a glance, except that one of Tink’s ears was gone. He beckoned to his assistant with impatience and hurried toward the cage. “We need to keep the heads, too,” he instructed. “In order to make the illusion complete.”
“If you want a swan to look like a swan, why not leave it be a swan?” Tink asked, scratching the other ear. It was turning purple, too, and the cook had a strange feeling that time was passing too quickly.
He felt a twinge of panic. Time passed slowly in Fae, if at all.
He gripped the cord he’d brought to strangle the birds and hurried on. “So, we don’t want to damage the plumage,” he said to Tink, who looked at him blankly. “Since we need the feathers for later.” He shook his head with impatience. “Just hold them carefully but firmly.”
They drew closer to the cage. The three swans began to hiss. They stuck their heads through the wooden bars and snapped at the cook and Tink, obviously having an idea of what was in store for them.
“You go ahead,” the cook said cheerfully. “I’ll wait with the rope.”
Tink gave him a look that was surprisingly shrewd. “I’m the assistant. I’ll keep the rope.” He then scratched his other ear so thoroughly that the cook could see the purple stain spread across his skin like a flood.
“You’ll do what I tell you,” the cook said. “And stop scratching your ear!”
“It’s not my ear I’m scratching. It’s the purple freckle.”
“It’s not a freckle. Your whole ear is purple.”