The Black Swan (45 page)

Her arms and neck were laden with heavy jewels; black sapphire and black pearls, set in ornate frames of dark gold. But the crowning touch was the enormous span of wings, real feather wings, springing from the gown at her shoulders.

These wings were also ornamented with jewelry, a conceit she never would have imagined on her own. Dark, pigeon's-blood rubies, emeralds and sapphires of the deepest green and blue-black, in settings of the same, dark gold, the decorated wings were so enormous she could not imagine how the dress supported them. Yet they felt weightless to her, as if they were not there at all.

Her father handed her a mask on a delicate, filigreed wand; the mask was the head of a black swan, surmounted with a crown. As an unexpected breath of cool air passed across the back of her neck, she put her free hand up to her head in startlement. Her hair had been built up, braided and twined with more jewels. She could not for a moment imagine how she looked; she only hoped that it wasn't
too
ridiculous.

Her father was also costumed, but although he wore a cape that replicated two huge wings flowing down his back, he was not disguised as an owl. He had the armor and helmet of a warrior, and with the wings, he looked like nothing so much as an avenging angel.

“This will be a masquerade,” he told her, “so I have provided appropriate costumes for both of us. I think we will make a striking couple.”

He offered her his arm, and she took it gingerly. He led her out of the woods and up toward the stable, using the shadows of the stable-yard to cloak their entrance through the walls to the main courtyard. Or—perhaps he cloaked them in invisibility; she could not tell.

They were certainly visible enough as they entered the courtyard.

The court was full of carriages and bustling people, both servants and gaily clad courtiers. Not only the inhabitants of the palace had been invited, it seemed, but everyone with pretensions of noble blood for miles around. In the chaos of the courtyard, their entrance without a carriage went unnoticed; they could have alighted from any of the vehicles being pulled out of the way by anxious grooms. Their costumes, however, excited a great deal of attention and no few glances of sheer envy; Odile hid her face hastily behind her uplifted mask to hide her blushes and confusion.

She was glad to have her father's arm to cling to; she felt light-headed, fever-hot and chilled at the same time. Perhaps it was the sudden press of so many strangers, the sense of urgency and hurry. She felt the pressure of strange eyes on her skin, and wished herself anywhere but where she was.

Von Rothbart basked in the attention, and took his time strolling across the cobbles to the entrance. People instinctively gave way before him, and many bowed or curtsied, assuming that anyone so clad must be of high rank and great wealth and power. It was easy enough to tell which of the people were guests, even without livery; guests wore costumes, even if the costumes were nothing more than a mask with their court dress. No one possessed costumes as elaborate as theirs, however. The sheer span of Odile's wings would have forced people to give way to her had she used them in that way.

Just how am I supposed to dance in this?
she wondered, licking her lips nervously. But there was no denying the fact that she and her father were impressive; from the looks that some folk gave her, she thought she might be the most outlandish thing they had seen in their lives.

Those waiting at the door cleared away at their approach so that she and her father sailed through without impediment. They passed from the torchlit courtyard under the twilight sky into the brilliantly illuminated interior. Candles gleamed from many-branched holders set into the wall; more candles shone from chandeliers made of dozens of gilded deer antlers suspended from the ceiling. Before them stretched the entrance hall, a short passage that led to an antechamber, which in turn led to the double-doors of the Great Hall. A line of guests stretched to the doors, now flung wide to admit them; at the door stood a liveried herald to announce the names and titles of the guests before they made their entrance.

Von Rothbart led Odile to the line with the assurance of one who attended such functions every day. Odile kept her mask before her face, surveying the room and the people from behind its shelter, as they slowly made their way toward the herald. The other guests made no attempt to conceal their curiosity; Odile's dress was the richest in the room as far as she could tell, and her father's was as impressive, though in a more subtle fashion. No one here recognized them, and there was much buzzing of conversation behind them, much whispering behind hands before them, as other guests speculated as to their identity.

Finally they reached the herald, who deferentially asked her father for his identity and consulted a scroll he held in his hands when von Rothbart replied.

The herald cleared his throat and stepped into the room. As the guests within the Great Hall caught sight of the extraordinary couple waiting to be announced, the hum of conversation stilled for a moment, and the herald's voice rang out into the expectant hush with the tones of a trumpet call.

“Baron Eric von Rothbart—and daughter.”

O
UTSIDE, thunder growled in the distance, and dim lightning flashed beyond the windows, silhouetting the trees black against the glass. There was a storm approaching, but that didn't seem to concern anyone as they stared at Odile and her father. In that moment of silence, Odile took in the entire hall, slowly moving her gaze from left to right, from behind the security of her upheld mask.

The air was warm, and laden with the warring scents of many perfumes. Between walls swathed in drapes of umber and gold fabric and cascades of late-autumn flowers and greenery, groups of brilliantly costumed guests milled on either side of an “invisible” passage where those to be presented to the hostess moved in a steady, stately progression. The end of this “corridor” led directly to a canopied dais on the far side of the room that stood beneath a pointed arch of stonework marking a recess in the wall; beneath the burgundy canopy were two wooden thrones. On one, the taller and more elaborately carved, sat a crowned woman; on the other, looking absently out the window nearest to him was Siegfried. The queen, a regal figure in scarlet velvet trimmed in ermine, greeted each guest gravely as they presented themselves to her, but the prince paid little or no attention to them. Siegfried's costume for the masquerade was minimal; a fine suit of court dress in white satin and black velvet, with a simple black-velvet domino mask that dangled from his hand.

Von Rothbart led Odile down toward the thrones, making way for the next guests to be announced, and following in the wake of those who had come before. If they had been the objects of attention before, they were now the objects of intense scrutiny and comment by the rest of the guests. Conversation ceased as they approached and increased as they passed; Odile kept her mask up firmly before her face and stared straight ahead, but her father basked in the attention, sauntering along in no particular hurry, gazing about him as if the other guests were nothing more than vaguely interesting plants in a garden. As they neared the vicinity of the dais, Odile found herself the object of some painfully direct attention from a half-dozen groups of people, each clearly associated with a particular young woman of very high rank. The groups shared a costuming “theme” with their putative leader, with their masquerade garb being less elaborate than hers.

The women themselves were not all as intent on Odile as their followers were. One made no pretense of being anything other than bored with the entire affair; her costume was also that of a bird, though not as elaborate as Odile's. She wore a gown of brown velvets and silks with dagged sleeves that resembled wings, and the mask of a fierce hawk—not the sort of thing one expected a young woman to wear! Her followers were dressed as other woodland creatures: stags and foxes, songbirds and the like.

Of the others, two—one all in black, with black gloves and a sinister black feline mask whose followers were also dressed as cats, the other her exact opposite, all in white, with no mask at all, and abbreviated angel-wings fastened to her shoulders with a retinue of sylphs—showed a great deal of interest in young men lurking on the edges of their groups. But the other three (in fairly conventional carnival costumes, Spanish, Magyar, and Slovak in theme) leveled glares at her that were both suspicious and threatening, and Odile wondered why, even as she flushed further. She was deeply grateful for her mask, which she clung to as to a shield.

Then, before she could regain her mental equilibrium, they stood before the queen. Odile lowered her mask as she dropped into a deep curtsy, her skirts pooling around her, and did not arise until the queen gave her permission. Queen Clothilde smiled coolly at them as von Rothbart bent over her hand, looking Odile up and down with a measuring glance.
She was beautiful once—she is handsome, still. I can see where Siegfried got his good looks. But there is something very cold and hard about her; I would not care to cross her will.
“Well, Herr Baron,” she purred. “I understand—everything—now that I see your daughter.”

Thunder growled nearer.

Siegfried was still staring out the window, paying no attention to the queen and her guests. Was he watching for Odette?
Of course he is—the moon isn't up yet, and he must be wild with impatience.

“Indeed, Highness,” von Rothbart replied, and chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. He took Odile's wrist in an unbreakable grip and drew her forward until she stood by his side. “So now, may I formally present my daughter, Odette, to you?”

The moment he spoke the wrong name, a chill, then a strange tingling, swept over her, and for a moment the queen's face blurred, as if Odile gazed at her from beneath a foot of rippling water.
Odette?
she thought, startled, as Siegfried's head snapped around and he riveted his gaze on her.
Why did he call me—
?

“Odette!” Siegfried cried joyfully, leaping to his feet and reaching toward her, before checking his movement as if he only just realized where he was. “But—why—how—”

“All will be explained in time, Prince Siegfried,” von Rothbart said smoothly, as Odile felt her mouth taking on the curves of a smile against her will, and watched her free hand reach for Siegfried's, then pull back modestly. “For now, simply take joy in this evening, and let matters become clear later.”

Odile struggled against the spell that had seized her, but to no avail. She no longer even controlled the blinking of her eyes; she was trapped inside a body that glanced flirtatiously at Siegfried, only to blush and look away.

Von Rothbart moved aside in answer to the queen's beckoning finger, taking a place to one side of her throne where the two whispered together. Von Rothbart did not take his eyes off Odile, however, and as for Odile—

Siegfried had a chair brought for her, and insisted that she seat herself beside his throne. Her eyes and mouth smiled, her hand rested in Siegfried's; only her thoughts were hers.

This is Father's doing! He's made me look like Odette—dear Jesu, he's using me to make Siegfried break his vow to her!
When the bonds of the spell closed around her, von Rothbart's intentions were only too clear. If only there were mirrors! The reflection in a mirror would betray her real identity to Siegfried—

But if there were any mirrors about, they had been hidden by the draperies and flower garlands. Was that her father's doing, as well? Had he planned all this from the very beginning? He must have! How else could this all have fallen out so perfectly? She, Odette, and even Siegfried had been manipulated like pawns on the chessboard for von Rothbart's pleasure, with the outcome of the game determined before it even began!

Dismay turned, in a flash to anger, and anger to rage.

He
never
intended to keep his word! He
always
planned to betray Odette! And he's using
me
to do it!

Inside, she was afire with fury; outside, as cool as a snowmaiden. Her body sat beside Siegfried, watching politely as more of the invited guests presented themselves to the queen. He held her hand and murmured tender endearments that
she
didn't listen to, though her body bent toward him and murmured back. Siegfried couldn't tell the difference, as her body responded anyway with modest flirtation, actions choreographed by her father.

Anger built and built with no way of expressing it. She was so angry now that there was nothing real for her except the anger and the terrible helplessness. . . .

The last of the guests were presented; one of the groups she had noticed earlier stepped forward, their costumed lady at their head—this was the Magyar group. They performed their bows, and the lady made a graceful little speech; Odile struggled to regain control of her rage and herself.

As she used her anger as a weapon, she threw herself with all her might against the spell controlling her. As an ironic counterpoint to the raw struggle going on beneath her tranquil surface, the musicians played a sprightly folk melody, and the group performed a clever dance especially for the queen and Siegfried designed to showcase the grace and beauty of their leading lady.

One by one, each of the six groups came to perform before the dais, as Odile pounded against the magical bonds holding her a prisoner. Like a wild thing in a trap, she beat against the barriers with all her strength.

At last that strength failed her, and she fell back within herself with intelligence dimmed and energy exhausted, having made no more impression on the spell than a single raindrop on the face of the sun. Bitter defeat rolled over her in a black tide, until she was as overcome with cold despair as she had been with fiery rage.