The Black Swan (46 page)

Meanwhile, her body smiled and shyly caressed Siegfried's hand, and made complimentary comments on the dancers. Von Rothbart said nothing, and hardly moved at all; she longed with all her soul for something to demand his attention and distract him for just a single moment. If only she could get a single crack in the walls of magic imprisoning her! The storm in her heart mirrored the nearing storm outside—and she made as little impression on her sorcerous bonds as that outer storm did on the walls of the palace.

When the last of the six groups finished a stately pavane, the six ladies came forward as a group, and waited expectantly before the thrones. The prince paid no attention; he was too busy looking into Odile's eyes. “Siegfried,” the queen said, with a touch of sharpness, “You must dance with your guests now.” The look in her eyes promised trouble if he did not obey, as did the tone of her voice, and with a sigh, Siegfried rose.

“It's just this one dance,” he whispered, before turning away from her. “They'll learn the truth soon enough.”

Odile's mouth smiled, her voice answered, “Of course. It is only courtesy,” as her mind screamed at him to look, really
look
at her!

But he didn't; he just smiled fondly, and went off to partner the six young ladies in a kind of ring dance in which he was the only male. They all knew now that they had no chance of winning him, but three of them kept trying anyway. They might just as well have been cronies of his mother's for all the attention Siegfried gave them; he was polite, gallant, and never touched them any more than the dance required.

Odile's body stared straight ahead; without Siegfried to beguile, her father wasted no time or effort on making her perform. Instead, he now whispered confidences to the queen, who smiled and simpered like a flirtatious virgin half her age. Although Odile could not even turn her head on her own, she did have the queen, her father, and the queen's minstrel in her line-of-sight—and a strange little tableau they made.

Von Rothbart, wearing the mask of a fond father, betrayed nothing of his true intentions and feelings as he traded compliments with the queen, and, occasionally, the minstrel. The queen also wore the mask of a devoted parent—but
her
mask slipped now and again, showing the ice beneath the surface warmth, the steel beneath the silk. It did not take Odile long to realize that the queen truly hated her son; did her father know that also? What plot had the two hatched between them?

Von Rothbart had never before involved another in his schemes. And this bid fair to destroy Siegfried as well as Odette! Why would her father harm a
man
when he never had before? Why was he helping the queen to break her son's heart—and perhaps his mind as well?

Or was this plot even deeper than the queen knew? Was this entire subterfuge a trap to catch a queen as well as a betrayal of his daughter and Odette? Was Siegfried no more than incidental to this disaster?

The minstrel, all smooth blandness, let
his
mask slip less frequently than the queen, but in the few instants that he did, Odile was surprised to see the venom directed at the queen
and
von Rothbart. For Siegfried, there was only contempt; for herself—nothing. She was a nonentity to him. What part did the minstrel play in all of this—and what did he expect to gain? Had her father promised him something? Or was he not involved at all?

She was just as much of a nonentity to the queen, who made no effort to speak to her, though there were a few remarks directed
at
her that she was clearly not expected to answer.

For the moment, Odile was too exhausted to care, and far, far weaker than she should have been.

And why, do you suppose, is that?
a tiny voice asked in the back of her mind.
Could it be that Odette was right—that you and she and all of the swans have never been anything to your father but a reservoir of power he could dip into at will? Could it be that this was the only value you ever had to him, other than being a convenient puppet, spy, and bait for a trap?

Yes. Oh, yes. Anger, now sullen, smoldering, and heavy, stirred in her again, uncoiling from her gut like an ancient dragon newly awakened.

Yes,
she answered her own voice.
Odette was right.
There was no reason why she should be so depleted—unless her father had stolen her power to in turn fuel the spell to steal her body.

In a blinding instant of chilling epiphany, it all came clear to her, and found voice in three poisonous words.

There had
never
been love, there had
never
been care, or pride, or anything but the same cold calculation a farmer uses when admiring a calf he is raising for slaughter, or a cow who gives unusually rich milk. She had never been a person to him, only a possession—and no one worries about the feelings of a possession. No one loves the calf destined to become veal.

How long had he been using her? She stared at that face, that familiar face, knowing that at any time she would have sold her soul for his approval—knowing that if he had ever come to her and
asked
for her help she would have given it without a second thought.
Would I even have betrayed Odette after she and the others became my friends?
With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she knew that, had her father said and done the right things, she might have. She might very well have, if he had offered, not only approval, but affection. And had he been an iota less arrogant and self-confident, had only a second thought about his own power and ability, he might have done that. “Help me, my daughter,” he might have said, “I depend on your help to unmask this traitorous queen, to prove to Odette she is not ready and her suitor is not worthy. I cannot do this alone, I need the daughter I love to work with me at my side.”

And if he had, it would have been just as false as this mask he wears now.
Everything he had ever said or done was with the intention of getting more from her than he pretended to offer, even in illusion.

Her anger built again, and with it, some of her strength—but she was clearer in her mind now, and determined to hoard the dearly won power. No more flailing against the walls of her prison; now she would hold her power in reserve, and wait. He could not hold her forever . . . eventually he would have to drop the spell, if only when he revealed his true intentions to the queen and her son.

And meanwhile, she would use her anger to destroy the connection between them that made it possible for him to take what he willed from her.

Siegfried returned, the dance complete, and beckoned to her to dance with him, alone. Now, sensitive to the nuances of the magic imprisoning her, she felt the pressure increase around her. Her body rose—she willed it to walk stiffly, unnaturally, but it did no such thing. It moved gracefully, and far more seductively than she ever could have on her own.

They danced, and if she had been in control of herself, she would have fled in sickened and acute emotional pain. This “dancing” was none of hers!

Siegfried seemed oblivious to the fact that his demure and modest beloved had somehow transformed into a seductress, a mate-devouring Lorelei, entrancing her would-be spouse into her clutches with the promise of passionate carnal love. Her body moved in subtle ways she hadn't dreamed possible, and she went from writhing in anger to squirming in shame.

Siegfried, blinded by love, blinded also by sorcery, gazed at her in abject adoration. Nothing she did broke the spell of enchantment or disturbed his lovelorn gaze.

Is this how Father sees women?
she cried out in anguish.
Even me?
How could he think of
her
like this?
She
had never done anything to make him believe she was a Jezebel like this!

But he was willing to use her however he wished, so why shouldn't he degrade her as he chose? If he thought of her as a fatted calf, why not think her a man-eating whore as well?

If she could have wept, her tears would have burned furrows down her face, so bitter were the dregs of degradation that she drank at that moment. Those un-shed tears drowned every last bit of feeling she had for her father, washed it away in hate-filled revulsion.

This dance, too, came to an end, to the polite applause of the court and the disgruntled glances of her “rivals” and their entourages. Siegfried caught her hand and kept her from returning to her seat when the music ended; she felt tension building to a climax.

Siegfried, don't! Look at me! See
me,
not the illusion!

She thought at that moment that nothing could have made her feel worse—until a ghost of movement caught her attention, and she looked over the heads of the courtiers to the windows.

Peering into the hall, with a face as pale as one drowned, eyes black with pain, hands beating in utter futility against the glass, she saw Odette.

And Siegfried, spell-bound and spell-blinded, saw . . . nothing. Nothing but
her.

He gestured grandly for silence, and the crowd hushed obediently. “Tonight you are gathered here to honor my natal day,” he said proudly, “but also to honor my choice of a bride. Out of all of the lovely maidens who have graced our court with their gracious presence this night, I regret that I can wed only one.” He looked about with a fatuous smile on his face, and Odile screamed inside her mind.

“I wish that I could grant each and every one of you a prince and a kingdom of her own,” he continued, as Odile's body smiled on. “But only one maiden has won my heart, and it is to her that I will pledge my troth, now and forever.”

As the real Odette watched in horror from the window, and Odile screamed soundlessly behind her own eyes, Siegfried dropped to his knee beside the Black Swan.

“This is she!” he cried, taking her hand in his and kissing it. “This is the maiden, and no other, that I will take to wife, the enchanting daughter of Baron von Rothbart!”

And into the silence that followed—Eric von Rothbart laughed.

Only then, as von Rothbart roared with triumphant laughter and the storm broke above the castle, did the spell slip. Just a little—but just enough.

With a strangled cry, Odile shattered the spell holding her, and shattered the illusion von Rothbart had wrought. She leaped away from Siegfried, toward the fatal window—she whirled, and Siegfried saw her real face.

And behind
her,
the tortured face of Odette in the window, gazing at him in despair.

Lightning flashed, and thunder rattled the windows; with a cry of absolute agony that echoed from floor to the rafters of the hall, Odette reached for Siegfried from the other side of the glass, reached for him, and was stopped by the glass.

The cry should have shattered the coldest heart, but von Rothbart only roared with laughter again, as Odette melted into the Swan Queen, whirled with another cry of despair, then spread her wings and allowed the tempest to carry her away.

Now von Rothbart spoke, his voice full of contempt as the crowd stood, numb and silent. “So, Prince Siegfried,
this
is how you keep your word? You vow yourself to Odette, then swear to Odile before the sun rises a second time?”

He might have saved his breath for he was speaking for the benefit of the crowd, not to the prince; Siegfried was already at the door of the hall, calling Odette's name as he ran. No one tried to stop him; they all seemed turned to stone with shock.

Only Odile could still move, and she picked up her skirts and ran, right on his heels, driven by that once-beloved voice.

Clothilde's cup of pleasure was full to the brim, without room for a single drop more, as Siegfried fled into the tempest, wildly calling out after someone only
he
had seen. She didn't understand what the baron meant by his taunt, but she didn't particularly care. Nor did she care why the baron's daughter had run off after him. As the courtiers milled in confusion, as the storm increased in fury and lightning struck the trees just outside, she stifled her laughter behind her hand, hoping that she could feign being horror-struck instead of hysterically pleased.

He'll never be king!
was her only thought at the moment.
They think he's mad—they'll never accept him as king! The throne is mine—mine—mine!

But the storm had a will of its own—and the power to set every plan at naught.

A flash of blinding light that filled the Great Hall changed her elation in an instant to primitive terror. The thunder that struck at the same instant drove her backwards to cower, trembling, beneath the canopy of the throne. A sudden burst of wind shook the glass, threatening to collapse the windows, and a second lightning strike nearby sent half the court screaming out of the hall to seek shelter somewhere less exposed. In the next instant, the windows shattered in a shower of shards, and the storm winds drove the rain into the hall. The wind swept away the warmth and perfumes, replacing it with cold and the faint scent of brimstone. All the candles blew out at once, leaving no illumination but the continuous lightning.