Page 4 of The Seventh Swan

"My sisters told me they call you Saveli the Silverspun."

"Because of the obvious, yes,"

Saveli replied, lifting his gaze from the water. "My father is named Grey, and my mother is called the Golden, and my godfather, when I was born with a full head of pale hair and pale eyes and skin so much paler than the rest of my brown-skinned family, jested that they must have spun me from silver. And because my magic most often takes the form of spinning, on a wheel from a long-lost kingdom that was cursed by it."

"Like my sisters spun the flax filled with flowers and thorns to make us human again."

"Spinning is one of the oldest magics in the world. My godfather, who trained me, was proud that I mastered it. He did not, for his training was unconventional, and he performs his magic other ways."

Through word and will, powerful and dangerous in their own right, closer to the wild magic of the deepest, oldest forests where few dared to tread. "Your sisters were fortunate to survive the magic they performed, for they had no knowledge or training of what they did, and had their will faltered even once, they might have died, horribly and in great pain. They were braver than they will ever know."

Oskar drew a deep breath and let out a trembling sigh.

"That does not forgive the mistake that was made, that she agreed when a healer offered to take what was not his to take. Two things can be true at once. She was brave, and she was foolish."

"I know,"

Oskar whispered to the dark water, his metal fingers curling into a fist. "I should be grateful. I am less of a freak this way. I look more like what I am."

"Not everyone looks the way they feel. You are not obligated to feel the way you look. The wing was yours, to keep or to discard. No one else's. I am sorry that choice was taken from you."

Oskar didn't say anything, only turned and strode off into the dark.

Saveli went to stand beneath the weeping willow, carefully gathering the leaves most soaked with sadness and longing, and wrapped them in a clean kerchief. He gave the pond a last look, then glanced up the dark path where Oskar had vanished before slowly returning to his room.

Wide awake despite the hour, he sat by the fire and combed out his hair, treated it with special oils that smelled of the violet roses picked from his uncle's garden. Then he braided and bound it and wrapped it securely so it would not get tangled or make a mess in the night while the oil did its work. He set the carefully wrapped willow leaves on the table close to the spinning wheel, then spent the rest of his night composing letters home.

When the sun rose, he dressed and ventured out again, wearing a dark blue cloak that protected against the rain that fell just a few minutes later, his hair falling in a heavy braid down his back. After posting his letters, he went to work.

This time, instead of golden wool, he went in search of sheep as black as night, which he found grazing in a field of wildflowers that looked like someone had planted a rainbow. They were minded by an old woman and her three daughters, who were happy to trade for small magics that would comfort their aging mother and a few coins.

In the village, he visited the jeweler, where he requested silver dust and other scraps, the leavings of her fine work. Though she stared at him in bewilderment, she gave what he asked, in exchange for a small emerald worth far more than the scraps. He tucked the tin of metal dust and shavings away, and finally returned to the manor.

As afternoon slowly began to turn to evening, he went to the pond and gathered more plants. Starwort, of course, for healing and protection. Bittersweet nightshade for death and rebirth. Compass flower and Whimsey to stay true and never submit. Weeping willow he had already collected, for melancholy that should not be ignored, but also for the tenacity to keep going.

Only two ingredients remained. One he had, the other he must request and hope to be given.

The rain returned as he headed for the house, pounding down relentlessly, soaking the poor hair he'd worked so hard on in the night. Ah, well.

Unfortunately, the foul weather did not abate, pouring down relentlessly with little break for three long days. On the third, the gloves he'd woven finished their work and faded to nothing, leaving behind two women who cried happily all the day and offered him anything at all he wanted in thanks.

"A lock of hair,"

he finally said, when they would not accept that he required no payment for something he had done unasked, entirely of his own volition. "It will be safely put away, never used for curses or other darks working, only to help some person in need."

"Of course!"

Lady Celina said happily, and they each cut a lock of hair, bound at one end with ribbon, and presented them proudly. "Thank you again for such a kindness."

What he'd done was little enough, and what three healers before him should have done, but he only bowed his head, drank his coffee, and ate something called coconut cake that he was growing quite fond of.

Finally, on the fourth night, when the rain broke and the water had drained enough to walk through it without much trouble, he returned to the pond. It had overflowed its banks, rising high up the incline, delighting the fish and ducks who called it home, and the frogs that had been singing ceaselessly for amorous attention from one another.

Fireflies winked around the edges, pieces of escaped starlight, before they faded off as full dark took hold.

He had not been standing there long when Oskar appeared, framed by the silvery branches of the weeping willow, staring at the pond like his heart was lost in its depths. The silence stretched on for some time, until even the frogs had grown quiet, when Oskar asked, "Why was the phoenix killed?"

"The tale of you and your brothers is quite famous here in your homeland. In mine, there is also a famous tale, about a man known as Ivan the Heartless. He befriended a phoenix, a wolf, and a mare, and traveled the whole continent with them, learning magic as he went, so that he might break the spell placed upon them. For the wolf had a jealous sister who wanted his life, and so she took them into the woods and changed them, told everyone they died, and gave each to a different person across the land.

"Ivan came to know the phoenix, and eventually the other two, but the only way to break their terrible enchantment was to marry the woman who had harmed them and then kill them. He freed them all, the man simply named Grey and his beloved Vassilissa, who would later be called the Golden, and his dearest friend, the faithful Tarabanov."

He smiled faintly. "My parents, and my uncle, and my godfather who saved them, whom everyone calls Heartless, though he is nothing of the sort."

Oskar stared at him wide-eyed.

"They are happy to be human again, and do no want to be anything else, but sometimes… sometimes my father says he misses hunting like a wolf, and my mother remembers fondly what it was like to run as a horse, and of course, my uncle has a beautiful voice that enchants all who hear him sing, but he misses when he could sing as a phoenix, to which no human could ever compare. It was he who gifted me the feather, and said that someday, I would need it for something vital.

"So you are not alone, Lord Oskar of the Pond. Transformation is a complicated magic for good reason, and often reveals more than any of us wants to know."

Tears fell down Oskar's cheeks. "They were all so happy. So relieved. Thank god that's over and we're finally free they said, over and over they said it. But I do not feel free. I miss sailing through the sky and gliding through the water. I did not mind preening or diving for fish or sleeping amongst reeds, whatever that says about me. I do not hate being human again, but…all I had left of the sky was that wing, and they took it from me. Replaced it with cold metal that forever reminds me that my place is on the ground."

"Did you retain any feathers?"

Oskar angrily wiped the tears from his face, yanking out a kerchief for his nose, and eventually said, "Yes. I went to where they'd thrown it away like trash, left to rot and fester and return to the earth like an unwanted thing, and saved five of them. Nothing as beautiful as your phoenix feather, but precious all the same."

Saveli took a deep breath. "Tomorrow, if you are willing, if you can trust me. Bring me three of them. Bring me those pieces of your heart, Oskar of the Pond, and I will return them to you a hundred fold."

"What do you mean?"

"Let me work my magic and you will see."

Oskar hesitated, then simply turned and walked away, vanishing into the dark as always.

Normally, it was not so difficult to get people to trust him. They were swayed by his titles, or his power, or his beauty. But Oskar knew only the most fanciful of his titles, and would not be impressed by the others anyway, and magic had already broken his heart, and he did not seem to notice or care about Saveli's beauty.

He returned to his room and prepared all the flowers he'd gathered, tearing them into tiny pieces and combining them all in a bowl so their oils and scents would meld. Then he drank a potion to counter the effects of the bittersweet nightshade, and washed thoroughly before enjoying another long, hot bath. If there was one thing he missed about home whenever he traveled, it was that he could have a boiling hot bath whenever he wanted. Spoiled brat? Absolutely. Was he sorry? Not in the slightest.

When he had cooked himself long enough, he pulled on a sleeping gown and climbed into bed, but sleep was slow in coming, and when it finally arrived, it brought more dreams of a swan bathed in moonlight flying off toward the stars to be quickly lost from sight.

At breakfast, Althaus had a list of names for him. "Thank you. I did not know their hands could be fixed. I thought if three healers all said the same thing, it must be true."

"Do not punish yourself for the lies of others. Know, however, that they will be punished. Are your wife and sister well?"

"They're not here because they wanted to get an early start on shopping, buy gloves and rings they could not wear before or only with great difficulty, like their wedding rings. We cannot thank you enough."

"You have done so, I promise. I am off to speak to irksome healers."

Starting with the bastard who had cut away a wing without permission.

His horse was as happy as ever to be out and about, and did not mind the requested faster-than-usual pace. Saveli paused briefly in a meadow to weave a crown that left his fingers red and swollen, but another potion once again saved him from poison.

He continued the journey down a long road to a distastefully ornate house some hours from the manor. Saveli's lips curled as he took it in, and he dismissed the boy in tacky red and gold livery who came to take his horse. "He is fine with the grass and wildflowers, and I will not be here long."

He did not bother to knock, simply let himself in, bypassing weak magic with word and will. Servants who saw him and started to protest immediately closed their mouths and hastened to move out of his way.

He found the man he sought at the very back, in a workshop that showed skill, but also flaunted ego.

"Who the fuck are you,"

the man snarled, then bellowed the names of servants he would be firing.

"You are the man who cut away the wing of Lord Oskar while he slept,"

Saveli said, voice level but full of sharp steel that cut off the man's tirade. "Mage Alfons, I am told is your name."

"Sorcerer Alfons,"

he spat in reply.

Saveli laughed, cold and cruel. "You are no sorcerer. Only a mage, though a skilled one, I will admit that. I cannot find flaws in your work. Metal beautifully wrought; that is living, working art. Your craft is flawless. Your methodology, however, is unforgivable. You take without asking, you force instead of giving. Tell me, mage, what is the first law of magic?"

"I give them what they need,"

Alfons hissed, red-faced, spittle flying. "Who are you to attack me in my home and tell me how to do my job! You are mad about the swan boy? I saved him. Took away that freakish wing and gave him a good, working arm. He should be showering me with praise, but what did I get? Screamed at and called a monster. He is a petulant child unable to appreciate—"

"He was a man who was a child when magic transformed him unwillingly. He was barely a man still when you again forced a change on him unwillingly. You know better. Magic reflects, that is the first law. What you give, you get. What you take, you lose. How much do you take and take and take to fight off the debt collectors, mage?"

Alfons threw a wrench at him, but the throw was weak and poorly done, and Saveli barely had to move his head to dodge it. "Get out. I don't know who you are—"

"I am Saveli the Silverspun, the Starspinner, the Soulless. I am the eldest son of an eldest son of an eldest son, a tsarevich of Koshar, and my master was Ivan the Heartless. I am the debt collector, and you will pay what you owe for so callously abusing your rare and precious magic, all the endless hurt you've caused."

Alfons collapsed to the ground, not quite passing out, but very nearly. "That— that's not— why are you here."

"Because unlike you, I listen when the magic speaks,"

Saveli said coldly, and dropped a crown woven from thorns and nettles and nightshade berries atop his head. There was a scream, and then smoke of a thousand colors that smelled and tasted of burned flowers.

As it cleared, all the remained of the man was a large brown toad. Saveli scooped it up and carried it outside to drop at the bank of a brook. "You have seven years and seven days to learn and change and grow, to see if one might see you true and love you true. Should you learn nothing, and remain unchanged, then you will be nothing but a toad the rest of your days, and no memory of your humanity shall remain."

He left the toad there and returned to his horse, where the stableboy stood watching it from a short distance, dutifully leaving him alone but not abandoning him either. Saveli gave him a gold coin. "Tell the others your master is gone, by magic and justice, and will not be returning."

Leaving the boy there gawking, he rode off to address the other healers. He was not as cruel to them as he had been to Alfons, but they would remember their duty in the hope of not ever seeing him a second time.

By the time he returned to the manor, night was just falling. He washed and dressed in fresh clothes and put his feather in his hair before taking up his midnight cloak, ignoring the exhaustion washing over him as he headed out to the pond.

Disappointment was a pit in his stomach when he saw that no one was there. Oskar had not come. Oskar did not trust him. Why should he? Most called him Silverspun for his strange beauty. Some called him Starspinner for the ancient curse he had broken. Many called him Soulless because when there was justice to be done, he seldom listened to their pleading.

A man that magic had hurt, had betrayed…of course he would not trust. Saveli had been a fool to hope otherwise. He was a sorcerer, earthbound with a heart of fire, and Oskar was meant for the wind and water. Saveli had wanted to give him that, no matter the personal cost, but he would not take what Oskar did not give.

Heavy hearted and weary, he turned to leave, focusing only on the bed waiting for him. All else could wait until tomorrow when he was rested.

"Sorcerer!"

Saveli froze just steps from the manor, shock rippling through him, and turned slowly, half expecting to have imagined that voice calling out to him, for the figure before him to turn into mist. "Lord Oskar. You were not at the pond."

"I…it…"

He stopped a mere few paces away, the light from the nearby house revealing more of him, achingly lovely, including eyes as dark and stormy as a spring sky. He sighed heavily before finally saying, "It was hard to leave my house. But I have been talking to my brother more, and my sisters, and my brothers further afield. I have not done that in a long time. You fixed my sisters' hands when no one else could. I've never seen them so happy, except on the day we turned back to human."

"I am happy I could help. That is all I have ever wanted to do with my magic."

Oskar held out his hand, clutching three feathers. "As you requested, sorcerer. To return a hundredfold."

"Yes. It will take some time to weave and knit the magic, far more complicated than the simple spell I wove for your sisters. Three days and three nights. I will return to the pond then."

"Three days and three nights."

Saveli wanted to say something more, but the words would be foolish and greedy, all about himself in the end, and he tried hard not to be selfish. A prince, his mother had often said when he was young, was a servant too. Serve the people, serve the land, serve the magic. When you think you are better than any of those things, you are not a prince, but a poison. She was the Golden now, but in her youth, before she was turned into a mare, they had called her the Wise.

He returned to his room and went to bed, then woke a little before dawn to ready himself. Washed and dressed, fed and with plenty of proper tea to keep him company.

Preparing the wool came first, scattering it with flowers carefully collected and torn to tiny bits. The then the pieces of silver. Then the swan feathers, each delicate barb removed and added to the wool. When he was finished with the swan feathers, he turned at last to the final piece required for the magic: the phoenix feather gifted by his uncle, plucked from his own tail moments before his head had been removed and his humanity restored.

He tore it apart like he had the swan feathers, until the black wool looked like a star-strewn sky. Only then at last did he sit to spin it into smooth, soft yarn that seemed black one moment and flickering with deep, hidden fire the next.

He spun all through the day and most of the night. After that, he fetched his knitting needles made of dragon bone and set to knitting. He poured his intent, thoughts of freedom and joy and love, willing the magic to take hold and bloom.

By the end of the third night, he was dizzy with exhaustion and hunger, but he only gathered his completed scarf and carried it with him to the pond.

Oskar was there, but instead of the weeping willow, he sat on a on low flat rock, nothing over his head except the last slivers of the waning moon. Soon there would be no moon at all, and then it would begin to fill again.

"Lord Oskar of the Pond."

Oskar scrambled to his feet and turned all at once, nearly toppling himself into the water. "Sorcerer."

He had hoped to hear Oskar say his name, just once, but he had trusted Saveli to weave this magic, and demanding more would be selfish, and Saveli tried his hardest not to be selfish. "As promised, my lord, here are your feathers returned a hundred fold. Wrap it around your neck and see if you find the results pleasing."

Hands trembling, Oskar took the beautiful scarf, black wool with flickering flames in its depths that smelled like wildflowers and bittersweet nightshade, and wrapped it around his neck as though to ward off the cold.

He gasped and shuddered and then suddenly there was no man, only a black swan with one gleaming silver wing. It cried out happily and glided effortlessly to the middle of the pond and then all around it.

Saveli watched until the swan at last took flight and was lost to the star-filled sky.

Returning to his room, he stripped off his clothes and crawled into bed and slept through an entire day and night.

When he finally rose, it was to see that Althaus and Celina and Agathe were abuzz with what he had done, their joy and thanks washing over him like a balm. Oskar had departed again, eager to see the world he'd lost, but he had left his remaining two feathers as a thank you.

It was more than Saveli had expected. He let them prepare him a feast in thanks, happily ate more of the coconut cake that he would miss when he returned home, and went to sleep again. When sunrise came, he packed his things and arranged for the trunk to be shipped, and pinned the swan feathers in his hair where the phoenix feather used to rest.

A bittersweet ache in his chest, he headed home, helplessly watching the sky for a black swan that never appeared.