The Swan King

The sun had not yet risen, leaving the world cloaked in a pre-dawn grey that swallowed all sounds and sights in the ever-changing swirl of fog. A chain of dark shapes marked the airship train as they coasted above the mist-shrouded landscape; specters drifting in a dream, lantern eyes peering into the abyss. Pine tree peaks thrust up from the gloom at odd intervals, marking a steady incline in the ground hidden far below.

A chill wind murmured in Asmodeus’ ears, clawed at his cheeks, and sent cold shivers through his body, making him draw the collar of his dark traveling coat up around his neck. He gazed around at the world surrounding the caravan, as woolly as the coat on his shoulders, and then returned his attention to the cracked and crinkled paper that was the map spread out on the wheel before him. Tom Sry stood to his right, lantern in hand and cloak about his shoulders, indicating a certain spot on the map between somewhere in the middle and nowhere. “I’m tellin’ you, Asmodeus…” Asmodeus cleared his throat with a narrowing of his eyes, and Tom corrected himself, “alright, Captain, but it still stands that we’re somewhere around here.”

Asmodeus cocked an eyebrow and chuckled to himself. “Is that so? Then that puts us somewhere in the vicinity of Milan!”

Tom took a closer look at his proposition, and shook his head. “But that’s way off course. Bavaria’s northeast of here.”

“Obviously, so we should be on the right course. Tom, we’ve been following an easterly heading all night. That should place us here,” Asmodeus took his turn to jab an elegant finger at the map, “outside Augsburg. If you don’t trust the compass, ask the heavens.”

It was Tom’s turn to turn a quizzical eyebrow. “You want me to pray?”

“No, boy; check the stars and the rising of the sun.”

Tom spread his arms wide, lantern swinging. “What stars have you seen in this soupy mess? And what sun?! It’s not even up yet!”

Asmodeus glanced skyward to either side of the great balloon keeping him and his crew from plummeting through the clouds. Tom spoke truly; there were no stars to track their course, nor sun to guide their journey. Asmodeus’ brow furrowed in doubt, but asserted, “So it would seem, yet I still hold that we’ve been heading east. That glow a few hours ago must have been Augsburg, which means we’re almost there. We’ll know better after sunrise.”

As if on cue, a thin jagged line of light appeared ahead of the cirque, marking a ridge of mountains in stark contrast to the half-light around them. In mere minutes, an orb of flame crested those peaks, forcing the fog down to the earth below. A single spire seemed to burst from the swirling eddies, white stone gleaming in the morning light, followed by high walls surmounting a granite pillar perched above a wooded valley. An alpine city sat huddled at its feet, straddling an ice blue river, chimneys and smokestacks lending their contribution to the morning mists. Asmodeus smiled, throwing the map to Tom and grabbing the controls. “Ah, here we are. Hang on to something,” he yelled back to Tom, who clutched at the railing moments before Asmodeus sent the airship plunging down over the rust-red rooftops, aiming for a clearing on the far side of town, twigs and branches of the nearby trees bending and snapping at his passing. Shouts of surprise and pain sounded from below decks as the stagehands, unaware of Asmodeus’ snap decision, reeled and tumbled across the hold.

Asmodeus circled once and touched down in the ring of pines, the other ships following in a much less reckless descent. The castle’s inhabitants had been eyeing them since their descent, and a few were making their way up the mountain path to intercept. Hopping down from the deck, Asmodeus spied a large blonde woman in traditional Bavarian dress, the first native in the long procession, mumbling ominously with every step, blue eyes narrowed to slits. Asmodeus sauntered up to meet her, arms wide. “Meine Gutte! Ist das meine Hilda? Du siehst heute so schon aus!”

Hilda glowered down at Asmdoeus, and responded in German, her accent lending a musical cadence to her words. “I thought I recognized your ship’s colors, you sly fox. Don’t think you can talk your way out of this one. I remember your last magic trick. Where’s my necklace?” She punctuated this accusation with a meaningful wave of the sturdy wooden spoon gripped tightly in her hand.

Asmodeus took Hilda by the shoulders and said with a smile, “But I thought you had such a wonderful time that night. And I did say I’d make it disappear, didn’t I?” With a wink, leaving Hilda fuming and grasping for words as one would grasp at dragonflies, Asmodeus swiftly stepped past her to greet an elderly man still in his nightgown and slippers, but with a youthful light in his eyes and a spring in his step, amplified at the sight of the newly arrived company. “Ah, Didi,” Asmodeus exclaimed.

“Asmodeus,” the gentlman cried, giving him a warm embrace and then holding him at arm’s length, looking him over. “Welcome, welcome. I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” he spoke in French as he glanced around, addressing the whole company.

Asmodeus turned to his circus companions and introduced his old friend. Hand on the man’s shoulder, Asmodeus performed a flourish in front of him, bowing low as he intoned, “May I introduce Baron Dieter Geltmacher.” The slumber-clad man bowed in acknowledgment to the assembled crowd and exchanged pleasantries with those closest. Asmodeus, meanwhile, had turned his attention to the smartly dressed youth at Dieter’s elbow, still attired for his morning ride. “Ah, and who is this fine lad?”

As if remembering the boy for the first time, Dieter’s eyes went wide, and he turned his gaze to his side. “Oh, yes, well,” he began as he cleared his throat, obviously flustered at this breach in etiquette. “May I, in turn, introduce his majesty’s son, Prince Maximilian Ludwig Joseph Wilhelm of Bavaria.”

The prince, wearing a dark morning coat and soft leather riding breeches, doffed his bowler as he bowed, dark hair tumbling around his face, his blue eyes surveying the assembly, lingering a few beats longer on Marie’s blushing features. In flawless French, he said, “I am very pleased that you could arrive for my father’s birthday. He should be finished with his toilet by now, and would have an audience. As I have finished my morning riding lessons, I shall accompany you and Dieter to the throne room.”

The troop began to descend the sloping path towards the castle, a clear sky above scattering the ground with the shadows of old oaks and maples. The stagehands, under the watchful eyes of Tom Sry, busied themselves with unloading the circus’ equipment from the scattered and assorted airships tethered in a ring. After grabbing an elegant shawl from just within her cabin, Alexandra bustled her way to the front of the column to take Asmodeus’ arm. “That was some course you took us on last night. Drinking and flying not a good combination?”

Asmodeus held himself straight and dignified, saying with overwhelming poise and a curious grin, “I assure you I was completely sober. Tom and I had a disagreement in directions. It would appear we use different compasses.”

Meanwhile, just behind them, Marie had falling into step with the prince. “I should enjoy a tour of your circus, once you are all settled in. I am a fan of modern technology, and cannot wait to see you all in action, Fraulein…?” The prince gave her a questioning look, waiting.

Marie looked puzzled for a moment, trying to figure out what kind of a name Froy Line was, but quickly inserted, “Actually, my name is Mary, pleased to meet you, and I’d be happy to show you around backstage.”

Some minutes later, they arrived at the large red brick gatehouse, and passed through into the grey stone outer courtyard. Dieter led them through the labyrinthine halls of the castle, down corridors, up spiraling staircases, to a grand audience chamber, the marble walls covered in frescoes depicting some local folk legend, great pillars forming an ring in the center. A fanfare of trumpets sounded, drawing everyone’s attention to a giant white object descending from the ceiling. With a squeak of wheels and pulleys, a metal swan gleamed as it glided past tall windows, cutting through shafts of brilliant light with slow flaps of its forged wings. With a soft thump, the clockwork avian came to rest in the center of the room, the great wings unfolding to reveal a carriage interior, occupied by a single rider. He was a tall man in a great blue robe fringed in white sable, a large silver chain of office hung about his shoulders. Like Prince Maximilian, the king had dark hair, cut short but left to wander, and eyes as blue as the clear streams that splashed through the mountains, cold and piercing. He gracefully glided from the swan’s compartment and took two steps to stand before his visitors. Dieter bowed low in reverence, the rest of those assembled following his example, Marie requiring a little coercion from Colette before she stood as the others did. After several seconds of uncertain silence, the Bavarian lord turned and strode to a large gilded throne set on a dais against the far wall. Seating himself in a leisurely pose, he spoke, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. “I am Ludwig Otto Friedrich Wilhelm, King of Bavaria. Welcome, guests, to my fairy castle!”