Page 1 of The Seventh Swan

The servants whispered in his wake. People often did.

Saveli ignored them, as he always had, and carried on through the hall of the lavish manor he'd been invited to visit in a mysterious letter full of we beg of you and don't know what else to do.

After his godfather had retired from a life of service, Saveli had taken up the mantle.

He had learned the magic; he would do the work.

It was all he'd ever wanted from the moment he'd watched his beloved godfather save the cursed and heal the broken and guide the lost.

He got many letters pleading for his help.

Some he had to refuse, some he could delegate, but this one had come tearstained and full of remorse and regret, a genuine fear that a man might take his own life over what had been done to him.

Also, the letter had come from a duchess almost as famous as his family, tied to a tale of magic that resonated deeply.

The magic itself had said he should heed the cry for help, and so Saveli had come, and now he would see if he could help a man slowly dying from the inside out.

He was shown to a parlor that resembled a cake, all pastels and ruffles, frothy and playful, redolent in a sugary scent, like fresh made candy set to dry before being placed for sale.

He always carried a bag of sweets with him, for they often helped distract and calm people, especially children.

Standing there draped in black, he felt like a shadow or omen.

A servant should have taken his cloak, but they often forgot to ask, distracted by his presence entirely.

He removed it and folded it neatly, carefully set it aside on a small end table, and went to the window that overlooked a pretty little rose garden.

Two men were there, and several children, playing some sort of game that had the children screaming, shouting, and laughing. Saveli smiled faintly.

The sound of strident, urgent steps came from the tiled hallway, and the door opened as he turned.

The woman in the doorway gasped softly before recovering herself, closing the door behind her before she stepped further into the room and gave a curtsy worthy of a queen.

She was beautiful, imposing without being intimidating, a stern but loving matriarch.

Her warm brown skin was flawless, save for her hands and wrists, and her black hair was threaded with silver despite her youth.

She wore a dark green gown embroidered with flowers and birds, and no jewelry but her wedding ring and a plain gold locket, unusual for the most powerful duchess in the kingdom.

Lady Celina Althaus, Duchess of Everhart, famous because she had arrived out of seemingly nowhere wed the long-missing Duke of Everhart. It was, he had been told many times, one of the most famous stories in the kingdom of Hochberg.

"Thank you, Sorcerer, for answering my letter. I know your time is precious and my problem likely small compared to most."

"A papercut is nothing to an adult, but quite alarming to a child. I do not measure problems by their size, but whether I think I can help with them. Sit, Your Grace, and tell me the whole of your problem."

She called for coffee first, a favored drink in this kingdom far south of his homeland, and after asking, made his with cream and sugar. "Thank you,"

he said as he took it.

Now the familiar ritual was completed, she seemed more at ease and ready to speak. "Do you know the tale of my husband and his family?"

"I heard some measure of it as I journeyed here, from people at taverns and inns, but as to the accuracy of their tellings…"

He spread his hands.

She smiled ruefully and gave a small laugh. "If what they say of your family is true, Sorcerer, then you're acquainted well with how truth spins into colorful tapestries."

"I am,"

he said, sharing the smile. "So tell me the true tale."

"Seven years ago now, my sister-in-law rightfully spurned a rotten man. In revenge, he turned her brothers into swans. If she gave her hand to him in marriage, he would free them from the curse. Else, she would have to work for seven years, one for each brother, to weave the cloth that must be draped over them. The weaving would be cruel and tedious, and throughout, she could not make a single sound—not to cry or exclaim or utter a single word.

"That is how I found her, two years later, living alone in the woods, weaving the fabric that would free them, her hands cracked and torn, always bleeding. She could not speak, but the man who punished her was not as clever as he thought, and so she could write. I had nothing and no one in my life. I traveled from town to town doing the thankless, tedious work no others wanted to in trade for food and bed and sometimes coin. So I helped her, and we became dear friends, sisters. With my help, it only took an additional three years, five in total, rather than seven…"

"But…"

Saveli nudged.

"At the end, I accidentally spoke, and the end of one piece of fabric failed. The youngest, Oskar, retained a wing instead of an arm."

In her lap, her fingers were tangled together in knots, her knuckles white, and a tear ran down her cheek.

Her hands were covered in scars, as though she had plunged them into an especially thorny rosebush over and over and over.

"They were extremely weak after enduring such terrible magic for years, and collapsed only minutes after being restored. In my haste to be helpful, to be good, I agreed when the healer offered to remove the wing and replace it with a mechanical arm. Oskar… he has never forgiven me, and rightfully so. Please, if you are able, help him. I have paid great prices before…"

She spread her hands, which did not stretch out entirely, gnarled by scarring and damage treated too late. "… And I will pay them again, to set right what I so badly wronged."

Saveli sighed inwardly as the problem was made clear, like a tapestry he was close enough to see the fine details of after being across the room for so long. "I am not here to judge, Your Grace. That is not my place. Even if this were my homeland and not yours, my mother and sister have the unhappy duty of casting judgment, not me. I will help your brother-in-law as far as I am able, if he will let me. Lend me a room while I work, and do not rush me. It could take days or weeks or months, I do not know. A wound that deep does not heal quickly."

"I understand. You will be given time and space and all else you need. I had a room prepared on the chance you chose to stay. Come, I'll take you there now, so you can rest and refresh. Do you prefer to dine with the family or in your room?"

"In my room for now, but that may change as I settle."

"Of course."

She gathered her skirts and led the way out.

"My husband will be home later tonight, if you wanted to meet him, or it can wait until tomorrow. His brothers live elsewhere now, save for Oskar. He lives on the property, in the old groundskeeper cottage. We rarely see him here in the house. If you would like a tour, I can give you one tomorrow."

"That would be appreciated."

She nodded and didn't reply further, leading him up a beautiful staircase of dark wood and deep greens, then to a suite of two rooms. "Are there belongings I should have brought up?"

"A large trunk and a valise I left outside at the bottom of the steps. I think the servants were about to attend them when there was some commotion with chickens and goats."

Huffing in amused exasperation, she said, "I see. The travails of being a working manor instead of a showpiece manor. My husband quite loves those stubborn goats, for reasons beyond me, but I will not deny him even the smallest happiness."

"I would not either, were it me. May I see your hands?"

She stared in surprise for the barest moment, then offered her hands. He took them, oh so gently, and ran his thumbs over the scars he could easily reach.

"Flax of course, for the base to hold the magic. Starwort for hope and valor. Greenbrier because love is often painful, but always beautiful. Fire weed for the cruelty of it all, and for healing and expulsion. Fresh blood for strength and life. A vow of silence for the years stolen, the pieces of life that were never lived.

"You and your sister did extraordinary magic, Your Grace. Transformation is difficult, and restoration nigh impossible. The last man who did it was called Heartless for his brave deed. Seven lives were saved. One soul is struggling right now, that is true, but you saved seven. Do not let one mistake drive you to forget that."

Tears fell silently down her cheeks, and she whispered, "You are kind, Sorcerer."

"I only remind you of what is true. Thank you for the rooms, they are lovely."

"I'll leave you to rest, as I'm certain you must be tired after traveling so long and far to help us."

She hesitated, then said, "Is it true they call you the Silverspun?"

Saveli's mouth quirked. "They do, to the endless amusement of my siblings, who are wholly unimpressed and call me Saveli the Brat."

She laughed. "I never had siblings, but my husband has seven of them, and that sounds very sibling-like. Thank you for answering my silly question. I will leave you in peace truly this time."

Then she was gone, and Saveli sighed as some of the tension of the day finally began to bleed away.

Though this kingdom and his own were on opposite ends of the continent, nearly a month of travel between them, many recognized him and all had questions to ask, and it made long travel even longer.

He had known that when he had taken up the work of his godfather, but that did not lessen the exhaustion.

In the bedroom, he stripped off his clothes and went into the washroom to scrub down thoroughly before settling into an almost too-hot bath, kept so with a trifling charm.

His hair, still damp, he twined and twisted it to pin on top of his head.

It was heavy and hard to hold up that way, but at least it wouldn't accidentally fall into the bath and get soaking wet all over again.

Out in the bedroom he heard as footmen deposited his trunk, whispering furtively as they no doubt discussed all they'd ever heard about the sorcerer from Loshar who had done so many great and terrible things.

When he had soaked sufficiently to ease his sore body, he climbed out and dressed in a soft, warm robe embroidered with cranes and jasmine, and then went to the front room to sit before a crackling fire to comb and braid his long, long hair.

Outside, the sun had set, and the full moon was high and bright, the kind of harvest moon that farmers worked by in the fading months to get the last of the harvest in before winter took its first bite.

It was a good time for magic, and for those haunted by it.

So he dressed in hose and robe and his fur-trimmed cloak the color of midnight, tied back the front of his hair and secured his prized feather where the strands met to lie against the rest of the heavy mass, and went in search of the man haunted by magic.

Saveli found him by the edge of a pond not quite large enough to be called a small lake, staring at the moonglow water like a hungry man stared at a king's feast. Saveli had expected to be intrigued. He had not expected to be captivated.

He was handsome, this Oskar, bathed in the same moonglow that danced upon the surface of the pond, dark of skin and hair, solid and strong like a piece of heartwood from an ancient tree.

His left arm gleamed, sturdy magicked steel with gold filagree work and fine jewels, the kind of craftsmanship any artist would be proud to call his life's work.

Mechanical arms were incredibly difficult magic; only a handful of people capable of it lived on the whole continent, and Saveli was not one of them.

His magic was quite different.

Leaves and twigs rustled beneath Saveli's feet, and Oskar turned sharply, resentment in his face. He looked Saveli over thoroughly, and sneered. "Who are you then?"

"Saveli, a sorcerer hired by your sister-in-law to see if I might ease your pain."

The resentment grew. "I don't need anything she has to offer, nor the rest of them. You can take your help and leave."

"No, I am afraid I cannot,"

Saveli said softly. "A heartfelt letter stained with tears called me here, and the magic itself says that I should stay. I will not do what you do not want, my lord, but allow me to at least stay with you here on the bank of the pond to enjoy the moonlight."

Oskar huffed. "Fine, whatever. Only leave me alone."

His eyes lingered all the same, as eyes often did, but they were filled with resentment and not the usual awe for Saveli's magic or beauty. Oskar looked away, eyes returning to the pond. "I'm Oskar, but you probably know that."

Saveli smiled softly, the curve of it mostly lost in the shadows. "It's an honor to meet you, Lord Oskar of the Pond."

Oskar looked as though he wasn't sure if that was an insult or a jest, but in the end he only gave another huff. "Oskar is fine. I'm just the crazy one living in the woods these days, hardly a lord, and the youngest and most useless of them anyway."

"I've met many useless people in my day, all of them egotistical lords and royals dressed in silk and velvet and dripping gold enough to feed a struggling village or three. Trauma does not make you useless, my lord, it only makes you traumatized."

"Nobody else is,"

Oskar whispered to the water, then seemed angry at himself for the words, turning and storming off into the dark.

Saveli stayed there by the water's edge until his eyes grew too heavy to stay open, and then finally went back to his room to sleep.