As I healed, I reminded myself daily of my brothers, the nettle tunics I had to retrieve, and the final tunic I had to make. I’d lost the nettles I’d collected the night of the full moon. They rotted before I was strong enough to travel down to the river to check on them.
But that didn’t mean I couldn’t harvest more.
Here. In Fianna.
A wild hope had begun to rise in me: What if my time bearing this burden alone was ending? I’d been granted shelter, and since the trial, I’d gained respect among the people of Fianna.
Perhaps Carrick and I could spend this last year among friends and allies. I imagined the people of Fianna meeting my brothers on the moonlit nights, of Aiden telling our story to the Ri.
For the first time, I considered telling Ionwyn our story. If I told her, I’d have her help retrieving the tunics—no more trying to sneak away to the cave.
I had three weeks before the next full moon. So for several days, I turned our story over in my mind, deciding how to tell Ionwyn. I even practiced the pictures I’d draw in the dirt outside the castle.
Finally, when I could hold it inside me no longer, I found Ionwyn.
“Wyn!” she exclaimed when she saw me. “What is it? You’re shaking.”
I was. If I could properly tell my story, everything would change. This was the turning point Ionwyn had told me about, earth and heaven changing places if only I could make her understand.
So I led her to a grassy corner near the far edge of the wall. I’d already scraped some of the grass aside and smoothed the dirt beneath it, my own parchment ready to be written upon.
I carefully knelt there and motioned her to sit beside me.
One last time, I ran a trembling hand over the smoothed dirt as I sent a prayer into the air: Help me . . . help me . . .
Finally, I looked at Ionwyn, then pointed to myself.
“You’re going to tell me what happened, aren’t you?” she said.
Yes.
Then I began to draw what I’d rehearsed for days:
First the figure of a man for Father. I’d decided not to draw a crown. I didn’t want Ionwyn to know that much. Then I drew my mother, my fingertip sure and steady through the dirt. Then five boys. Finally, I drew another boy and a small girl beside them. I pointed to the girl and then to me.
Ionwyn looked up, tentative. “That’s you. You have six older brothers—”
I nodded, then I smoothed out the woman.
“—and your mother died?”
Yes.
She nodded, pleased with herself. “And then what?”
I drew a woman beside the tallest son, then drew a bundle in her arms and pointed back at the castle.
“Carrick!” said Ionwyn. “His mother?”
I nodded.
“He’s your nephew, then.”
Yes.
I drew a line across the dirt-Tanwen. Even that small reminder hurt.
Ionwyn saw my wince. “She’s dead?”
I nodded. Then I drew another woman beside Father: a new wife.
I’d thought how to tell this next part—how to explain just what the Queen had done. I drew fine lines over my brothers: prison bars.
Ionwyn shook her head, confused. So I brought my hands up as if gripping imaginary bars.
“Your brothers were imprisoned?”
Yes.
“By whom?”
I pointed to the Queen.
Ionwyn nodded. “Go on.”
I pointed to the Queen again, so Ionwyn would know who I mimicked. Then I stood just as she had, with her iron posture and scowl. I raised my arms, mouth open in a silent imprecation—the exact image of the Queen when she spoke the word that turned my brothers into swans.
Ionwyn watched, wide-eyed. Before she could speak, I crouched and returned to the sketch of my brothers. I drew the change slowly, the way I saw it in my nightmares: I showed necks stretching, arms turning to wings, legs dwindling . . . Turn the story, Ryn. Turn it!
She looked at the picture, then up at me. “Swans? What does that mean?”
I pointed to the swans flying, then up at the sky.
Please, please understand!
Ionwyn reached a hand to touch the picture, as if that could pull her into the story. “She killed your brothers? All of them? Is that what your kin believe? That the souls of the dead fly away like birds?”
I sat back on my heels, cursing my stupidity.
Of course she’d think my brothers had died! Who would assume that men had been turned to swans? My story would be hard enough to explain—and believe—even if I could speak.
I tried to draw the change one more time, tried to show Ionwyn the truth.
Ionwyn watched me closely, but she didn’t understand. How could she?
“She killed them. Is that it, Wyn?”
There’d be no turning the story, no allies this last year. Just me, the Swan-Keeper.
So I nodded. I let Ionwyn think my brothers had died.
She leaned forward. “Is this woman nearby? Do you fear her still?”
A stretch of ocean separated me from the Queen, but it couldn’t lessen my fear. Another thing I couldn’t explain to Ionwyn.
No.
“Good!” Ionwyn’s smile faltered, as though she sensed there was more.
But she helped me stand and walked with me back to the castle. How I longed for the hackle and spindle! To have something to do with my hands, as if I could make my life as smooth and even as the nettle fiber I wanted to drag across the hackle’s spikes.
I’d been a gosling all over again. There would be time—and words!—for explanation later. I should have been satisfied with a full belly for Carrick and me. I could safely complete the last tunic here.
And I would.
But first, I needed to retrieve the other tunics. The people of Fianna were used to me coming and going. They wouldn’t immediately pursue me as they had before.
It would take only a day to find my cave and gather the tunics. I’d return on the second. Carrick would be safe till I returned.