The Black Swan by Mercedes Lackey Page A

I do say so myself. It was very delicate work, too—it took a light touch. But I must have been doing more than I thought, to be this drained. Maybe it was because I went so slowly at first. . . . It was rather strange that she hadn’t immediately felt the effects, but she couldn’t think of anything else that would account for the severe drain on her energy. Well, it’s all right. It will come back. Feeling stronger, she ordered the waiting servant to bring her strawberries and cream, a favorite dish that replenished strength quickly but wasn’t as cloying as the honeyed wine. Sorcerers always had a taste for sweets, driven by their need to replenish depleted energy, and there were always plenty of sweet things in the kitchen. When von Rothbart finished a major work of magic, she had known him to devour an entire marzipan figure by himself.
    The strawberries were absolutely fresh, and the cream had been slightly sweetened with honey before being beaten to thicken it. The snack and the wine helped a great deal, and she left the bowl and goblet for the Silent One to clean up, rising from the chair to take careful steps towards her own rooms. It still seemed odd that she should have been so very drained—but when she looked back over her shoulder, the amount of work she had accomplished impressed even her. Filth must have been positively embedded in the fabric by now. Maybe I should be surprised that I’m not more tired.
    She shivered; cold was another symptom of energy drain, and she was freezing, hands and feet like ice sculptures. “Put warm bricks in my bed,” she ordered without looking back. “And have a warm posset waiting at my bedside.” At the rate I’m walking, even if there’s only one servitor about, it can get the dishes to the kitchen and complete my orders before I reach the door of my bed chamber. I’m moving like a feeble old woman.
    She wrapped her arms around herself, chafing at her upper arms with her hands to try to stir up her blood as she walked. Just as she got halfway to her rooms, the posset drifted by on invisible hands, and with the scent of cinnamon to spur her on, she put a little more life into her steps.
    Curtains belled gently in a warm breeze as she passed open windows, and moonlight poured through onto the floor, checkering her path in light and shadow. She glanced out one of the windows as she went by, and a faint strain of music caught her ear; Katerina was dancing with the little ones, with the older maidens in a larger circle around them. Evidently she’d managed to forget how heartbroken she was.
    And a month ago, didn’t she swear she wanted to die? Odile’s lips tightened in a cynical smile. Father is right. They are all of them faithless. Perhaps they can fool themselves, but they will never fool him.
    The door to her rooms stood open, and she was mortally glad to let her weary feet take her inside. Once there, she let the Silent Ones disrobe her for a change, and staggered into the bed, now delightfully warmed with the bricks. The posset stood within arm’s reach on her bedside table, or she would never have bothered to drink it, but it helped to warm her as well.
    She felt herself falling asleep, and tried to get the cup back on the table, but couldn’t keep her eyes open. Invisible fingers plucked the cup from her nerveless ones, and she fell instantly asleep.

    Odile knew every article of her father’s clothing—she should, for she had supervised the making of it—so it was no trick at all to insinuate her cleansing mist into his quarters, even though the door was locked. She had devised a rather neat touch to it, and one that would alert him to the method by which his clothing and linens were cleansed; she’d included a final scent as the hallmark of her magics. She’d chosen the scent of light musk, a little like the scent of a raptor’s feathers; it wouldn’t interfere with