The Black Swan by Mercedes Lackey Read Free Book Online

of them on watch with the maidens, and now had the time she wanted to concentrate on her own magical studies.
    She perfected her own transformation spell until it was a marvel of swift efficiency, but she had no intention of showing it to von Rothbart a second time. She was tired of rebuffs when she expected praise; there must be something she could do to change the situation. For the past few days, she had devoured book after book in the library, sitting next to an open window overlooking the gardens in order to enjoy the summer evenings while she sought for a new direction in her work. She had to have something to show her father, for he kept up a steady inquiry into the progress of her studies. That inquiry would become painfully embarrassing soon; traces of sardonic amusement already showed in his voice. Her problem was that she couldn’t think of any course of study that would please him.
    Finally, she tried a different approach to the problem. She cleaned off a wax tablet and sat in her favorite seat with it in her lap and a stylus in her hand, a single lamp burning above her head. She divided the tablet in half with a line scribed in the wax; on the right, she inscribed a word or symbol that stood for a spell she had mastered that had brought forth a word of praise, while on the left, similar signs for spells that had brought indifference, or worse, veiled disapproval.
    When both sides of the tablet were full—though the list of spells was by no means the complete tally of everything she had learned—she leaned her chin on her hand and studied the result.
    One pattern emerged quickly. Whenever she mastered a type of magic that von Rothbart used, her presentation invariably got a cool reception. In fact, the more powerful the spell, the likelier it was that he would have that reaction.
    Ah. But how odd. It puzzled her; it would have been more logical for him to praise her for emulating him, wouldn’t it? Didn’t he want his daughter to follow in his metaphorical footsteps? This discovery only added to her puzzlement, for although she had a pattern, there was no obvious reason why he felt this way.
    Surely he doesn’t think I’m setting up as a rival to him—does he? That’s ridiculous. . . .
    She rubbed the tablet clean and began another list, concentrating on the accomplishments that he had expressed approval of. On the right, the list reflected mild approval, on the left, an actual moment of praise. These lists were much shorter, and there was blank wax beneath both lists; it dismayed her to realize how little she had mastered that had called forth any enthusiasm at all from her father.
    Not only am I doing something wrong, but I have been doing it for a very long time, it seems. She compressed her lips tightly, and her eyes stung for a moment. Can’t he see how much I am trying to please him? Isn’t the effort worth something?
    Perhaps he didn’t realize how much effort she expended on this; after all, he was the one who insisted that she maintain absolute control over her expression and body-language, that she cultivate a mask of cool indifference at all times. She must never show that anything moved her, that anything surprised or angered her. “The more effort something requires,” he had lectured her, “the less you should display. Assume that everyone who might watch you is an enemy. You do not show an enemy your weaknesses. Make everything appear as natural as breathing, and that alone will confuse, even frighten, a foe.”
    She had not been a total failure—for she had actually garnered praise from him from time to time. I’ve done a few things right, at any rate. All I have to do is discover what they all have in common.
    But she felt even more dismay when she realized what this pattern was—a dismay tinged by anger, an anger that grew with every moment that passed. For the only sorts of magic von Rothbart seemed to approve of