The Cuckoo had to shake his head as she rushed off, chuckling to himself as he watched from the balcony as the throng prepared for her song. In the crowd, he could see the Swallow Maiden standing side by side with a Great Lion. He could only smile to himself. Feather had found Creggan, the Seneschal’s son, or perhaps he had found her. The night would only end in one way for the two of them, the only way such a meeting between two like souls could occur upon Cuckoo’s Eve. In some nine month’s time, there would be a child with violet eyes. The story between now and then could take oh so many turns, though, and provide as he might even the Devil Himself could not foresee the obstacles upon Feather’s journey. He had provided all he could, though. Come the morning, when she awoke in Creggan’s bed and with his declarations of love for her and praises for her beauty, how would she react to finding the dream made real?

A minor lady, of course, of no real standing and with no servants. Born into fallen nobility, Feather would rise up in the ranks of society as the bride of the Seneschal’s son as he became caught up in the romance of it all. He would be her savior! Creggan would restore her to her rightful position, and they would be wed happily as all of Feather’s dreams came true! The cunning part was that it wasn’t any sort of fiction. Feather was distantly related to fallen house, and while the genealogy was torturous to follow it could be proven that she was of worthy station. It would take time and worry and dedication and anxiety… but, yes, she would have what she most craved as her reward for playing her part this evening.

Yes, their wedding would be joyous! The marriage itself? The Cuckoo had no idea! He had never promised her a ‘happily ever after.’ That was a story they would have to forge themselves. His part in that story was done for now, and the next chapter in which he would make an appearance was nine months and a violet eyed child off…

When the Swan Queen began to sing, The Cuckoo leaned against the balcony rail and closed his eyes. So someone had remembered something. The words were a little different than he recalled, the tune altered just a touch here and there… but it was enough to bring back the memories of other Cuckoo’s Eves and other singers and dancers. And bring back the worst thing that there could ever be for a forgotten god and devil: hope.

But time was passing. He had allowed her that small leeway in the rules of the game, but he could not allow her any other.

***

Tambernanny stretched out his arms and shoulders to relieve his muscles of tight knots and sore kinks from laying within the haystack. Yawning, he looked across the stables towards where the woman in black gown and wings stroked the muzzle and neck of a huge white horse, a powerful beast tamed to her will. The bard blinked at her owlishly. After a moment’s pause, he rose from the pile and brushed loose straws off of his jerkin and hose; he was dressed still much as he had been when he first appeared before the Baron and with little to show any spirit of the season. He wore no mask nor costume, his handsome face unobscured as he smiled wryly at her. If he knew her true identity, he gave no indication of such and treated her as though she might be anybody.

“Forgive me, your Majesty,” he called to her archly, “I was not expecting royal company. I had thought I found a young lady to sing along with me, but some blackguard seems to have made off with her and left me to my own devices. After years of traveling upon the road, sometimes a haystack is more familiar and comfortable than an actual bed!” Tambernanny gestured upwards towards the great hall. “A fine gathering of guests the Baron has to pay homage to him, is it not? Not for the likes of myself, of course, a sad seller of songs and stories who has strayed from his station. Although someone was singing a rather fantastical song not long ago, I could hear it even from down here in the stables, so powerful was the lady’s voice! I dare say, and this in my professional capacity as a jongleur, that it has been ages since I have heard either such a song or such a singer to sing it. Truly.”

He stopped before the white stallion and gave a low, appreciative whistle. “A fine steed, your Majesty, a fine steed indeed! Were you planning a ride this evening, then? Not that it means ought to me one way or another, but tis a passing strange outfit that you would be riding out in if that’s your intention.”

Looking back at her rakishly, the bard grinned widely again. “That song… did you hear it, your Majesty? The words themselves and what they mean?” Chuckling much as the Cuckoo had, the young man strolled away towards the open doors of the stables to stare up at the sky. Hand upon hips, he sighed happily. “Too late for an evening star now, I think. There was one before the singing started, I think, but now there’s only the moon rising higher and higher into the sky. And it’s bright, too. Look at all the shadows upon the ground, like fingers reaching out into the light to snatch away all that is brightest and most precious.”

Turning back to look at her over his shoulder, he raised another arched eyebrow. “But what of belief, your Majesty? What do you believe?”

Seraphina spun in surprise, her dress rustling softly around her until it settled back into the dark bell shape that continued to swing lightly. She watched him cautiously as he extricated himself from the hay and made his way towards her. His voice was soft and lilting as he spoke of why he was here and of the party that continued behind them. Then he began asking after the singer he had just heard from the hall and how he had appreciated the song. As always when she was surprised her face became neutral mask and only the rapid flicking of her eyes over his countenance gave away her unease. What game was this, the way he spoke to her, it was pleasant polite conversation and he was acting like he had not been expecting her at all. Violet eyes raking over his aspect she found it as he had been before, there was no sign of a mask but still this was the same man she had been speaking to not half hour previous and yet he greeted her with pleasant surprise. Why was he treating her like they had not met?

However she was speaking to a man who had taken on the countenance of the cuckoo, the devil whose very nature was to trick and deceive, Seraphina was not to be wrong footed. As a dancer recovers when their partner changes the routine, so she adjusted to match this new pace with barely a moment’s hesitation. Her rigid posture once again unfroze and for the second time that night she morphed into the charming and easy persona, she was all smiles and confidence as she angled herself towards him.

“Indeed such praise from a master of music, this song must have stirred something in you for I always find those who have talent with instrument or songs are the harshest of critics. Glad I am that you enjoyed my song.” Seraphina said in a breezy tone, watching him from beneath her lashes, all the while her hand continuously stroked her horse’s nose. She smiled as he looked suitably impressed and then seeming to notice the horse for the first time a low whistle escaped him as he gazed at the snow white steed.

“A fine steed, your Majesty, a fine steed indeed! Were you planning a ride this evening, then? Not that it means ought to me one way or another, but tis a passing strange outfit that you would be riding out in if that’s your intention.”

Seraphina arched a delicate eyebrow at this comment but said nothing of his instructions from before, if this was to be their game she had given her word that she would play it faithfully and since she had already tested the boundaries it was best just to go with it for now.

“Ah dear minstrel I am built for flight, through the night sky or galloping across the ground there is no force on earth that can contain me. The heart of a bird cannot be tamed. No matter how high the walls and battlements I will not be imprisoned, no cage will bind me, not steel or stone nor this dress for I am the Swan Queen.” Drawing herself to her full height Seraphina gently shook her moonlight silver curls, wings quivering as though she was once again prepared to take flight and eyes bright with an intensity they did not normally possess.

Chuckling much as the Cuckoo had, the young man strolled away towards the open doors of the stables to stare up at the sky. Hand upon hips, he sighed happily. “Too late for an evening star now, I think. There was one before the singing started, I think, but now there’s only the moon rising higher and higher into the sky. And it’s bright, too. Look at all the shadows upon the ground, like fingers reaching out into the light to snatch away all that is brightest and most precious.”

Turning back to look at her over his shoulder, he raised another arched eyebrow. “But what of belief, your Majesty? What do you believe?”

Watching him again with scrutinising eyes Seraphina walked with slow, graceful steps to stand beside him as she too gazed out into the moonlit night. For a moment she was still and quite, the question was a strange one, its implications were deep and the answer required some though. Then she spoke her voice soft.

“The song and the moonlight speak a common message to us, shadow and light are two halves of the same coin, and you cannot have one without the other. And no matter how deep the darkness there is always a glimmer of light, of hope to guide us. That being said there is no true cause to fear the darkness, it is the quite, still time. Look again at those shadows, they do not creep to snatch and steal but they embrace the light, forever side by side in harmony.” And then she was quite as they looked out upon the landscape, the wide road leading away from the stables was completely bathed in silver moonlight and flanking it either side was two lines of trees each a vague shadowy form whose leaves fluttered in the breeze.

“I do not see the terror and foulness of night as some men do, it is to me a comforting time, when the entire world is slightly blurred by moonlight and one can move unobtrusively from shadow to shadow. Even when the night is disturbed with purple clouds filled with thunder and lightning it still has a savage beauty. There is so much more to the night, when many different aspect of the world can be seen in the heavens, so unlike the day when the sun rules with an all encompassing light in which nothing else can shine in comparison and all is laid bare for the world to see, without compassion or mercy.” The last words were spoken with a trace of bitter resentment in her tone but she did not elaborate further. Again she was quite for a moment before speaking again her voice again returned to normal.

“Not the answer you expected I doubt, but I am the black swan and darkness is in my nature.”

The minstrel watched her with amusement as she spoke of her beliefs. “Well” he drawled in countryside wisdom, “I try not to expect anything, your Majesty. Takes too much of the surprise out of life, you see. Life’s too short to not have surprises.”

He leaned against the frame of the stable doors and crossed his arms as he looked at her with an impudent and mischievous gaze. She truly looked beautiful. Standing there in her dark costume, the shadows of the building made her wings look all the larger and more impressive until he easily could imagine them being real, the loose straws of hay and dust stirred about she flexed them in her might. What a queen she would make, came the unbidden notion. Suddenly, Tambernanny felt a pity for her. She could be so much more than she was… if only she let herself.

“But you speak of freedoms!” he dramatically cried in delight. “That nothing might bind or imprison you, not even the clothes you wear? Now that would be a sight to see, your Majesty! The Black Swan, Queen of the Dark and the Night, devoid of her feathers to shine like silver under the moon, proud and free and unashamed in her nakedness for all to fear and to obey… and to love.” The minstrel chuckled sadly and removed his hat to run fine fingers through his bronze locks, smoothing the hair away from his face and back across his head. Even were it not the festival of the Devil Himself, Tambernanny would not have reigned in his mouth to express his admiration for her body.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer; it came across as more sincere even as he fiddled with his hat in his hands. “Is that why you chose the costume you wear now?” he asked knowingly. A hand gestured to her glorious outfit. “That’s why we dress up on Cuckoo’s Eve, you know. Or at least why people used to. It was to be something other than what we are, to be what we always dreamed of being but never dared to become. A scullery maid becomes a wanton. A Baron becomes a hunter. A high born maiden becomes the Queen of the Night. A minstrel becomes the Devil… or a forgotten God.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, anyway,” he suddenly laughed as if at his own pomposity. “Or perhaps it’s the reverse! Perhaps in donning the costumes and masks, of allowing ourselves the freedoms of Cuckoo’s Eve, we become who we truly are! Perhaps both reasons are equally true!”

A sudden thought seemed to come to the traveling musician, his brown furrowing even as his face screwed up in contemplation. “I wonder what that says about the Seneschal, then, who wears no costume or mask and at best adds a little ornamentation to his robes of office. Is he himself completely, then? Or is it simply that he’s never dared to dream at all? Either way, what a dreary life!”

Tambernanny lolled himself off the doorway and into the courtyard immediately outside of the stables, still chuckling as he pointed to the far gate. The portcullis was raised against all protocol. Beyond it, the winding road was light by the moon to highlight its curves and swells as it spun past the nearby town and into the woods beyond. The forest looked different in the night, as though it were wearing a costume of its own. “He’s waiting for you, you know,” he grinned as he raised his voice for her to hear. “Out there. It’s one of the oldest tales, the Black Swan seeking the Cuckoo in the forest, looking for the one creature in the lands that would not bow to her. In some versions of the tale, she demands that he bow to her, that the Cuckoo acknowledge her beauty and power and to so love her. When he refuses, she bends him to her will and makes him a lesser creature to serve her. In other versions, he enslaves her! The Night is chained and he is free to torment mortals to his own delight until the other beasts of the world come to ransom her freedom.”

He walked back into the stables to stand before her, his face unsmiling but still kind. “But none of that happened in the oldest version of the story, your Majesty.”

Walking past her then, saying nothing more of stories as he plopped back into his haystack. “Strange thing, I know, that I find the haystack preferable to the glorious suites his lordship has bestowed upon me, but it is more comfortable. More familiar. But should you have a willing handmaiden with little to do, your Majesty, might you send her my way? Because the familiar life is often a lonely one.”

Seraphina could not help the tiny impatient harrumph that escaped her at his comments about freedom and his idea of what that implied. Typical male, she thought with derision, their mind was so focused on that one ideal of nudity they failed to understand the power of clothing, in which covering up could be just as explicit because it left something to the imagination. There was also no power in nudity for a woman, hers is the body that yields and is invaded and as such is not a demanding or forceful thing as a male body is. It is in denial of the reveal that she is able to keep her power and mystery. Turning her blazing eyes upon him she gazed coolly at him for a moment or two without breaking the silence.

“My feathers are my choice and my right and only one worthy may understand the soft contours of my skin.” Again she paused and her next words took a slightly sneering tone. “I have yet to meet such a soul, I have seen many, from great lords and humble peasants alike and all have been found wanting.”

For a moment she wondered what in the name of all sense was she doing here, speaking to this man of all things, either way this was not turning into a pleasant conversation. Then as quickly as these thoughts came she stopped that inner monolog, taking a deep breath she once again released her tension, all the faults of men could not be blamed upon this one. Also compared to the tiresome bores she had to entertain on occasion at least a conversation with him kept her on her toes. In all honesty she did not think she had ever met a man who on some level did not view her with a sense of objectivity, even her father could be accused of this, in his desire of a betrothal for her; under the fatherly instinct lay the material gain a good match could bring them. So yes it was wrong to bring all blame to this one’s door when he was only guilty of acting as was his nature, at least he did so honestly, which was more than she could say for most. Shaking herself back to the present Seraphina came back to the conversation as they both continued to gaze off into the distance.

“He’s waiting for you, you know,” he grinned as he raised his voice for her to hear. “Out there. It’s one of the oldest tales, the Black Swan seeking the Cuckoo in the forest, looking for the one creature in the lands that would not bow to her. In some versions of the tale, she demands that he bow to her, that the Cuckoo acknowledge her beauty and power and to so love her. When he refuses, she bends him to her will and makes him a lesser creature to serve her. In other versions, he enslaves her! The Night is chained and he is free to torment mortals to his own delight until the other beasts of the world come to ransom her freedom.”

“Oldest version?” She questioned. “I do not know if it is the oldest but I too know of a differing version of events.” Seraphina chimed as they both watched the moonlight chase the shadows. “In that the Black Swan is held in torment by those that oppress both her and the land. She is given a challenge, if she can make a man confess a love that is true to her then she and all under their tyranny will be free. However if his heart is proved false or his intentions are merely for gain then she will know nothing but misery. Now in the tale the oppressive force think they find the perfect candidate, the Cuckoo, one who is destined to lie and cheat and they think they have set the unwinnable challenge. Now this is where no one could decide of the end. Did the Cuckoo act exactly as was predicted, as was his nature, or did he surprise all and prove himself to be true. No one knows I am afraid, my mother would tell me both endings and would never specify which was true.”

Again the night air tingled slightly against her skin as they spoke of old tales, something about this night seemed to ring with possibilities. The moment was ruined somewhat when the minstrel flung himself down upon a haystack and spoke of the lonely life. Watching as he closed his eyes in a most dramatic manor Seraphina again could not help the sigh. Pausing for only a moment as the silence once again descended on them Seraphina watched him. This peace was swiftly broken by the sound of metal scraping against metal as Seraphina pulled back the bolt to the horses stalls. First a beautiful bay mare with long graceful legs and bright eyes trotted out to stand meekly beside Seraphina who after a quick pat turned her attention to the second stall, where the white stallion was housed. Upon his release the wild stallion reared and plunged for a moment before quietening under her touch as she whickered soothingly at him.

In one swift motion she was upon his back, having used a hay bale as a boost. Her dress although it was not riding gear it was sufficiently flexible to allow enough movement, the soft downy layers that created the feathery bell of her skirt was able to drape around her legs so much that only a couple of inches of ankle could be seen. The black of her skirt contrasting boldly against the stark white of his coat and together they made an impressive sight. The feathers against his flanks almost made him seem like the majestic Pegasus. Seraphina wove his white mane round her hands as she sat across bareback across him and under her command he was as still and calm as a gelding.

“Well Minstrel,” She called from atop her steed looking as regal as any legendary monarch of old “the only cure for loneliness is company and it is rarely something that will seek you out. You must seek it. Come ride with me and see the wonders that only emerge when land flies beneath you in a swift giddy rush. Come take Milya, she is gentle and will not let you fall. Come ride with me and Finwë and let us see the truth of these old tales with our own eyes.” Seraphina beamed down at him with a smile bright on her lips and her whole face seeming to radiate with excitement at the thrill of adventure that called them this night.

Tambernanny lowered his head and arched his one eyebrow as he looked up at her upon her magnificent steed. She truly looked as something out of the ancient stories and legends, the queen of the night and darkness and secrets before him as the pale moonlight shown down upon her from the open door. “You wish me upon this adventure? Truly?” Shaking his head at the folly of the nobles, he reluctantly pulled himself from his comfortable bed of sweet smelling hay to saddle the old mare. “As you so command your Majesty. For a time, at least. Although I should be properly dressed, should I not?”

Reaching into his jerkin, he pulled forth a simple mask of black feathers. A single white feather stood out meekly near the corner of his left eye, one lone virtue against the vices of the face he wore - the sign of The Rook. The gods and goddess who wore the feathers of the corbies were as neutral to the affairs of their fellow deities as they were to those of mortals, an independent sort who wished neither woe nor weal upon others but instead served their own whims. They were the lords and ladies of intelligence, of adventure, and of most of all luck. Strange that this minstrel should happen to so have a masked, however raggedy, so immediately at hand when summoned.

Donning the mask, he paused for a moment as though letting its aspect fulfill him. Then he mounted upon the mare solemnly and proceeded to follow Seraphina out of the stables, through the courtyard, and beneath the bailey’s main gate to pass into the world beyond. None stopped or cried halt. Indeed, no one even seemed to have noticed their presence as they left and rode silently onto the road that wound about the countryside and into the woods.

“Did you ever think,” Tambernanny suddenly asked when they were a distance away, “that both endings your mother gave you are true? Or that all versions are the same in their own way? The tale of the Black Swam and the Devil Himself is an ancient one, and all versions have the truth of it in them.” He chuckled with a smirk upon his lips as he raised his head to the moon. “Then again, perhaps the Cuckoo is the one who spread the tale. It was ever his nature to deceive with the truth, after all. Look at the tale of the Sparrow Maiden!”

He said little more then, merely following her along until they passed through the strangely still town and reached the very edge of the Moorland Woods. It was said there were eldritch things that happened in such dark, enchanting places, especially on Cuckoo’s Eve. Ancient spirits long forgotten came to life, beings neither wholly evil or blessed but alien all the same. The Gods were said to descend from the heavens to dance among the trees, shedding their feathers and beaks to stand as men and women in their own company and of those they favored. The dead, too, were said to return to the world to remember once more what it was to live and to be alive. The hedge of the woods seemed to thrum with the promise that anything could happen within. It might not, of course. One could enter the forests of the world upon this night and see nor hear anything of the ordinary, or perhaps the phantoms summoned up were spun only from their own imaginations and fears. It was only the promise of a possibility, after all, not the solemn vow that one would be changed.

Somehow, that made the nerves tingle all the more in fear and anticipation. Like death, like life, it was the unknown that spread out before the Queen and the Rook between the trees and hillocks within the Moorland Woods.

“There are bandits, your Majesty,” Tambernanny warned softly as they paused at the entrance to the woods. “Even on such a night, mundane dangers take no holiday. Best you be on your guard. I will serve as your knight where I may, but it is a poor knight that a jester makes. The one waiting for you within… His wrath would be most terrible were you to allow yourself to come to harm.”