by Andre Norton
At each meal he sat beneath the state portrait of her distant cousin and the difference grew more apparent every time she had viewed the two in such contrast.
The mighty presence of the former Duke was certainly enough to overshadow most of the men she had seen. Captain Rangle of the Guard would come the closest to the firm jaw, that high-held head, that warrior's stance. Had Wubric really presented that overawing aspect to his subjects or was that his fancied idea of himself?
Mahart continued to stare into the mirror. One could see how she appeared—to herself at least. Did she appear with the same nonentity to others? Take away her position here and who would bow and curtsey, ply her with shallow compliments?
She rubbed her hand across her forehead wonderingly. Never before this morning had she asked so many such questions of herself. It was as if her dream—though it might not have freed her body—had lit a candle cluster in a dusky part of her mind.
She leaned over once again to the brazier to see if she could catch any lingering trace of that fragrance just as a discreet knock on her door announced that she no longer had her privacy and would not for the rest of this long day.
It was Julta, of course, her noiseless glide in contrast to her stiff-held back—Julta, who was able to express her reaction to anything by a down curve of lip or a lift of eyebrow. But Zuta had said that the maid was as close-mouthed among the servants as she was with her mistress; and she was quiet, deft, and sometimes seemed to fade into the background as if she had stepped into one of the many time-faded tapestries.
She placed the silver tray she carried on the dressing table and poured from its matching pot the morning infusion of herbs supposed to enliven one for the day.
“Your Grace rested well?”
“As ever, Julta.”
“There is a message from His Highness. He wishes your presence in his cabinet before Second Bell.”
“Thank you,” Mahart said as she sipped the tea. Well, this day was one which was beginning surprisingly. She could count on her fingers the number of times her father had ever summoned her to that chamber which was the heart of his own cramped life. “I will wear the vine dress, Julta.”
The maid had already turned to the tall wardrobe. The vine dress—of a leaf green with its embroidered borders of silver vines—always gave Mahart confidence. And today there was something about its freshness which warred with the dark age of the room and reminded her of the open field and its gems of flowers.
She suffered the pinning and pulling of her hair into the new style suggested by Zuta—divided into two braids which were then coiled one over each ear to be anchored with fine silver nets, the pins holding such sometimes a threat to one's scalp. The rest of the ritual of washing and dressing continued as usual—Julta as closemouthed as always, leaving Mahart to her scrambling of thoughts.
What had she done lately which might have actually stirred her father into not only remembering he had a daughter but summoning her at this hour for speech? But her conscience was clear enough. So it was not some misconduct of the past but some new regulation of the future that she was facing.
As she selected from the jewel casket Julta held open the simple chain of silver leaves which she always wore with this gown there was a second knock at the door. Mahart was allowed to fasten the necklace for herself as Julta went to let in Zuta—though it was early for the lady-companion to appear.
As usual Mahart immediately felt drab. Zuta's gown outlined her form as closely as if she wore no chemise beneath. Its dark blue satin, the same shade as her heavy-lidded eyes, was not, however, cut as low at the bodice as those of the ladies who attended Saylana appeared to find in fashion, and her hair had been all but completely hidden by a gold-patterned baglike headdress.
She curtseyed and rose smiling.
“I see I chose well, Your Grace. You arose refreshed this morning.” She glanced from Mahart to the brazier.
“True,” Mahart agreed, “it was all you promised, Zuta. Surely this Herbmistress has great knowledge. I wish,” before she thought (and why did she suddenly believe that this was a thought she did not wish to share?) “that I might visit this famous shop for myself.”
With a slight frown, Zuta shook her head. ‘ ‘That is not the way, Your Grace. Should you wish to know more of what the Herbmistress has to offer, summon her and ask that she bring samples—if His Highness will approve. After all, he has always allowed you to select from Master Gorgias the best material for your gowns, and did he not give you last name day the moss lily scent you liked so well? Remind him of that when you ask to meet the Herbmistress, for it, too, came from her distilling. Now—what is your will?”
She stood waiting by the door. Mahart denied herself a last glance in the mirror as she answered.
“His Highness desires my presence in his cabinet before Second Bell. I shall have to wait to break my fast this morning, Zuta.”
For a moment she thought she saw Zuta's lips begin to form a question. If the lady-companion wanted to know why this out-of-custom demand had been ordered, she was trained well enough in etiquette not to ask.
So Mahart went alone down the staircase into the busier section of the castle. Guardsmen she was hardly aware of snapped to attention as she passed until she reached the door she sought. There the guardsman thudded the butt of his spear of ceremony on the floor loud as any fist against that portal.
There was a muffled answer from within and the guardsman unbent enough from his statue pose to open the door and announce: “Her Grace, the High Lady Mahart, Your Highness.”
Mahart took a deep breath and stepped forward. The heavy draperies at all the windows had been pulled open, and there was a measure of daylight added to by candles on the wide desk. He was not alone; standing to one side and curving forward in a formal bow was Vazul.
Mahart's eyes widened, but she swept the deep, formal court curtsey to her father. Why the Chancellor should be present was an added puzzle.
“Give you a fair day, Father, and may fortune favor you.” She was glad that her voice sounded steady enough.
“Yes, yes—” The Duke waved an impatient hand, and his aspect was certainly not welcoming. But he stared at her strangely. His eyes actually seemed to open the wider, as if she were some curiosity being presented to his notice.
“Sit—” He jerked his hand again, this time toward a chair which the Chancellor had drawn forward.
Sit she did, but now uneasiness was fully awake in her. What did they want of her? That Vazul was a part of her being here she did not doubt.
“You are of age.” Uttobric was now shuffling papers back and forth on the desktop as if he were discovering that he was finding it difficult to select the proper words. “Of age,” he repeated quickly, “to be betrothed.”
Mahart's folded hands tightened on each other. She knew well that in this subject she had no choice at all.
He paused and was looking at her expectantly.
“Yes, Father.” She pinched out the answer he seemed to have been waiting for as he now continued.
“As a woman matters of statecraft are beyond your judgment. But this is something which you must understand, for it means the safety of the duchy. As you well know, I was not in the direct line of descent but was elevated to serve Kronen by fate when my second cousin and the other male heirs died in the plague.
“By law the rule could not pass to the High Lady Saylana, as no woman ever rules, nor could it go to that son of hers"—his mouth twisted as if he could have added a few scathing words to describe Barbric—"as I lived. But though fortune favored me in one way, it scanted me in another. Your mother bore me only a daughter.”
He made that sound, Mahart thought, as if in some way her only faintly remembered mother had deliberately arranged such a mishap.
“Now listen closely, girl, to what our good Chancellor has found in his lengthy search of the laws—for there are sometimes twists and turns in old decrees which can bring proper solutions.”
“In the reign of Duke Kathbric the Second"—his voice had a certain hypnotic quality and she was strangely eager for him to continue—"a similar situation arose. He had only a daughter, the High Lady Rothanna. The next heir, a distant cousin, was one who had betrayed his royal blood over and over by dastardly actions. Duke Kathbric appealed to the House of the Star. Those Chosen Ones prayed and petitioned in his behalf, and at last she who was abbess at that time was given a vision at the very altar. Others witnessed the silver beam, but only she saw who stood within.
“Thus the Star Dweller made answer: if the Lady Rothanna wed with one of equal blood who would enter into Kronen not as a visitor but as native to spend his life here, then the Duke, after that marriage or when his last days arrived, could proclaim this son-in-law now a son by blood.
“They sought for such a man and discovered him in Arsena across the sea. He was in exile, expelled from his land by the great conqueror Lantee, his former kingdom completely swallowed up by that Emperor's act.
‘ ‘He had been first son to the king of his own land, but now was the only survivor of his line. His descent was proven by those from Kronen who searched. And he was brought here, married to Rothanna, and subsequently proclaimed son by descent.”
Vazul's hand, raised to stroke the creature, seemed to move in rhythm with his words. Now he paused.
That strange feeling of another self opening within her moved Mahart daringly to speak.
“If this happened once—why not again? The High Lady Saylana—”
“The High Lady Saylana"—her father's grating voice almost made that a threat—"has, unfortunately for her, a strong will. She refused to follow the proper orders of her father and married Lord Aliken—entranced by his looks and the fact he was a public hero after putting down the outlaws at their stronghold at Volon. At the plague time she discovered to her cost what she had done. Her father and her lord were both swept away, and the latter had only been a noble for five generations and so was well outside any royal line.
“Such folly"—her father was continuing—"will not occur again. You have heard Vazul, praise the Star, he found this divine precedent—now you will do your duty.”
Mahart suddenly shivered. Marriage was always, she understood, among those of the blood a gamble like the tossing of Fate Stones. Few girls ever even saw their intended before the wedding day. But to face this fate suddenly was frightening.
“Who—” she began when her father cut her short.
“All things will come in order at the proper time.”
“Your Highness.” Vazul's voice was soft but had in it the force of a reminder.
“Yes, yes.” Uttobric slapped his hand down on the paper-strewn desk. ‘ ‘You are not fitted yet for court; there will be lessons. And then there will come a visitor whom you will meet with all goodwill. Now, go—I have much to do.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. Vazul in two swift strides was at the door bowing as he opened it. As she passed she caught a faint whisper: “You will have more freedom, High Lady—take care how you use it.”
3
That scent which made Willadene's flesh prickle was strong. But for a moment she had to blink to adjust her sight to the very dim light within the shop. The lamp which always burned all night at the other end of the room was the only glimmer here now, except for the sliver of daylight stretching out from the half-open door.
Willadene's sandaled foot nearly nudged a huddled shape on the floor—Halwice? Her hands flew to her lips, but she did not utter that scream which filled her throat. Why, she could not tell, but that it was necessary to be quiet now was like an order laid upon her.
Her eyes were drawn beyond that huddled body to a chair which did not belong in the shop at all but had been pulled from the inner room. In that sat the Herbmistress, unmoving and silent. Dead—?
Willadene's hands were shaking, but somehow she pulled herself around that other body on the floor toward where one of the strong lamps, used when one was mixing powders, sat. Luckily the strike light was also there, and after two attempts she managed to set spark to the wick.
With the lamp still in hands which quivered, the girl swung around to face that silent presence in the chair. Eyes stared back at her, demanding eyes. No, Halwice lived but something held her in thrall and helpless. There were herbs which could do that in forbidden mixture, but Halwice never dealt with such.
Those eyes— Willadene somehow found a voice which was only a whisper.
“What—?” she began.
The eyes were urgent as if sight could write a message on the very air between them. They moved—from the girl to the half-open door and then back with an urgency Willadene knew she must answer. But how— Did Halwice want her to summon help?
“Can you"—she was reaching now for the only solution she could think of—"answer? Close your eyes once—'’
Instantly the lids dropped and then rose again. Willadene drew a deep breath, almost of relief. By so much, then, she knew they could still communicate.
“Do I go for Doctor Reymonda?” He was the nearest of the medical practitioners who depended upon Halwice for their drugs.
The eyelids snapped down, arose, and fell again.
“No?” Willadene tried to hold the lamp steady. She had near forgotten the body on the floor.
She stared so intensely as if she could force the answer she needed out of the Herbmistress. Now she noted that the other's gaze had swept beyond her and was on the floor. Once more the silent woman blinked twice with almost the authority of an order. Willadene made a guess.
“Close the door?” That quick, single affirmative blink was her answer. She carefully edged about the body to do just that. Halwice did not want help from outside—but what evil had happened here? And was the silent form on the floor responsible for the Herbmistress's present plight?
With the door shut some instinct made the girl also, one-handedly as she held the lamp high, slide the bolt bar across it, turning again to find Halwice's gaze fierce and intent on her. The Herbmistress blinked. Yes, she had been right—Halwice wanted no one else here.
Then that gaze turned floorward, as far as nature would let the eyes move, to fasten on the body. Willadene carefully set the lamp down beside the inert stranger and then knelt.
It was a man lying facedown. His clothing was traveler's leather and wool as if he were just in from some traders’ caravan. Halwice dealt often with traders, spices, and strange roots; even crushed clays of one sort or another arrived regularly here. But what had happened—?
Willadene's years of shifting iron pots and pans and dealing with Jacoba's oversize aids to cooking had made her stronger than her small, thin body looked. She was able to roll the stranger over.
Under her hand his flesh was cool, and she could see no wound or hurt. It was as if he had been struck down instantly by one of those weird powers which were a part of stories told to children.
He was young with dark hair which curled thickly over his head as she gingerly touched, seeking an injury which might be hid by the thick locks. His face was well featured but gaunt with the shadow of beard beginning to show. Altogether, there was nothing to differ him from any minor merchant she might serve in the inn. Willadene drew back her hand and wiped it on her ragged apron. That he was dead she was almost certain, but she was no healer. Questioningly she looked up at Halwice.
Again those wide eyes held hers. And, as if the Herbmistress so made sure that she had the girl's full attention, the eyes turned downward to the body on the floor. Once more the gaze was raised to Willadene and this time, very slowly, as if the Herbmistress was using every bit of the will she could summon, the eyes shifted away from Willadene and the body to that curtain which cloake
d the entrance to the back room.
Three times Halwice went through that sequence. Again Willadene had to guess.
“Him—back there—that's what you want?” She pointed toward the inner room.
The blink which answered her was like a snap. Yes, that was what the woman wanted. He was to be hidden from anyone coming to the shop unwittingly as she had done.
She set the lamp back on the counter and then worked her way between the body and the angle of Halwice's chair. Stooping, she hooked hands in the armpits of that inert corpse—though every nerve in her shrank from what she was doing.
It was hard, but she managed to drag him into the second room, pausing now and then but always beginning doggedly again. The back room was large, for one end of it was a bedchamber and the other a cooking place, far cleaner and better smelling than that Jacoba ruled.
Willadene stood staring down at the body. The thought grew in her that it was foolish to leave him so, in plain sight. The bed was a cupboard one and so no hiding place there. She stared about until she noted the settle at one side of the fireplace.
It was a massive piece of furniture and the seat was deep. If the area below was as wide— Luckily the back windows had been thrown open; scents from the wide herb garden hidden behind the shop mingled and she felt refreshed, almost as if her mind had so been cleared and she could again think purposefully. The settle it would be.
However, getting her burden in place there was no easy task, and once it was done and she had made sure he could not be sighted by anyone casually glancing into the room, the girl was breathing as heavily as if she had been racing like a noble's trained mare.
She had to keep one hand against the side of the doorway as she looped up the curtain in order to steady herself as she returned to Halwice. Coining to stand directly before the Herbmistress she made her report.
“He is under the settle—there was no better hiding place.’’
