Scent of Magic

by Andre Norton

  No, she was Mahart and as Mahart she was determined to do the best she could for-—herself! Let Prince Lorien caper his way about the ballroom (though she could not imagine his stiff figure performing any kind of a caper); she would watch and, as they had bade her, listen.

  Pulling the coverlet tighter about her shoulders she finally drifted away as the aches of her body eased and no plans stirred to keep her from slumber.

  Green—not the fields of her longing but giant ferns, curling tips well above her head. Around her was a green gloom, and a humid wind pressed against her, though she was sure that in this place her real body did not exist.

  What did exist was a force which drew her past any will or ability to stem, and it seemed the farther she was into this murky gloom the thicker was this growth, as if the giant plants around her were attempting to pull her into fragments, absorb her into their own lush growth.

  Mahart had known nightmares in her life. When she was younger shadows had come to grisly life and pursued her down dark corridors. However—this had a difference, a kind of reality which left her stiff with fear.

  For a moment the ferns before her either parted or faded into nothingness and she could see a face. Old—old with such a map of wrinkles that even mouth and eyes seemed overborne by their depths. But the sparks of eyes—the malignity in them was like a physical blow.

  Behind this monster wrought by the changes of great age there was another—but only a column of mist—though she noted that it had a darker core. But it was those evil eyes which held her nettled. Two claw hands, wrapped by twisted and gnarled bone, arose—pointed—

  “Your Grace!” It came like a shout and the fern forest was snapped into nothingness by its force—with it that which had confronted Mahart there.

  She opened her eyes to find that she was sitting up in bed, panting as if she had raced through corridors the prey of some fear.

  Zuta’s hand was on her shoulder and Julta stood at the foot of the bed, the herb girl with her. They were watching her wide-eyed, and the herb girl was holding out an amulet in her hand.

  “You—you are all right, Your Grace?” Zuta asked.

  Mahart’s heart was returning to its proper rate of beat and she drew a deep breath. “It was a dream!” She said that defiantly, as one who refused to be caught by any night-born fancy.

  16

  “You are overtired, Your Grace.” Zuta gently pushed Mahart back on the pillows. “Herb girl, have you no restorative? Her Grace has but a short time now before the ball begins.”

  Willadene made for her herb bag. Yes, no one was immune to nightmares, but the High Lady seemed to have met with one deeper than usual terrorizing level. The smell of fern was very strong. It was lingering unlike any fragrance she had had contact with before, and she wished strongly for Halwice. For she was plagued by the belief that whatever talent she might indeed have was being overshadowed now by something else. Yet there was no betraying evil stench she could pick up.

  Mahart seemed to agree with her, for when Willadene returned with a small cup of honey-flavored liquid, the High Lady was already out of bed and seated before a small table on which was a tray with a light meal.

  There was another dinner to be served this night, but only for the male members of the court. The ladies were too intent upon necessary hours of primping to waste time so.

  Mahart was running her fingers through her loosened hair.

  “Willadene"—she addressed the other’s name as she might one close admitted to her company. “Is there any way this fern smell can be lost? I find that it now is near stifling at times. If I bathe again—is there another way of overlaying this scent or at least aborting it?”

  “It can be tried, Your Grace.” Willadene was attempting to call to the fore of memory what Halwice might suggest for such a service. Though usually any smell to be banished was an unpleasant one, and she had no sure belief that that procedure could work. It was only because she herself found the scent so oppressive that she could really understand Mahart’s desire to rid herself of it.

  Bathing, yes, with certain nullifying crystals added to the water. But they did not have much time. At Mahart’s orders Willadene took over and set about seeing once again to an even more elaborate program than they had earlier followed this day.

  However, the fern smell did fade when Willadene saw to a strong use of orangeflower water for both bath and to rinse the hair. It was a simple scent, but she had added to it with a reckless hand some spices from overseas. The results were certainly not those usually sought by ladies bound for an evening of pleasure, but when they had done Mahart caught Willadene’s hand and squeezed it.

  “I may smell a little like a midwinter feast pudding"—she laughed, the shade which had been on her face when she had awakened gone—"but is there not an old saying that the way to interest a man is to attract his desire for food? I hope the Prince has a liking for mince tarts!”

  “Your Grace—are you sure— Perhaps there is some other remedy. What could be, herb maid?” Zuta was frowning as Julta saw Mahart into the fine underlinen which clung to her body. This had been carefully taken from a wardrobe fortunately not opened earlier, and they had all agreed none of the fern fragrance clung to it.

  The dress she was laced into was far more elaborate than she would have chosen, but it was of her father’s ordering. Willadene had sprayed it well with orangeflower essence. In color it was not, Willadene thought, really becoming to Mahart.

  The High Lady looked her best in cool, delicate shades. And this robe was stiff, golden brocade which tended to conceal the slender, youthful lines of her body and made her look almost clumsy.

  Because Mahart’s hair was still somewhat damp they towered it under a net headdress so beset with gems as to belittle her delicate features and make her hair more resemble some unfortunate dowager’s wig.

  At least, since she was to lead the dancing—with the Prince of course—she need not suffer in addition the weight of cape train and her skirts did not sweep the floor.

  “Faugh!” Mahart stood before the long mirror Julta tilted to a proper angle. “I look like a fête doll. Saylana will, I think, be properly pleased.” However, she did not appear to find that of any great importance.

  The great hall, which had been cleared for the occasion, was three stories high, and two of the balconies above were packed with such of the major servants who were not on active service so allowed to watch the pageant below. Behind their carefully preserved lines there was a shoving lot of lesser rank. Willadene had hoped to see Halwice somewhere—knowing that the plain robe her mistress favored would be more conspicuous amid all the finery about than it usually was. But there was no sign of her.

  Her own clothing and hair held some of the strong scent Mahart had demanded her ladies to use and she noted that those on either side of her withdrew a little whenever she moved as if they found close company oppressive. However, Julta was with her and the maid had fared no better from their efforts.

  Below on the first of the balconies were stationed the musicians. Since the Duke had small liking for music, those who had served his predecessor had to be hunted up again and quickly rehearsed—to what result they would soon see.

  On the dais at the north end of the long hall the Duke had already taken his seat, as if by being to the fore he could somehow speed up the procedure.

  Mahart was already making her way up to the second highseat a step below her father’s, and close behind her came the Lady Saylana, her sea-green robe patterned with a webbing of silver in which were caught pearls, while such jewels lay in costly loops across her white shoulders, quite openly revealed, and aided in lacing her bodice and as well were threaded through her hair, giving stability to a miniature tiara which bore a far too startling resemblance to the Duke’s coronet.

  Beside the Duke’s throne stood a squire of the body resplendent in a ceremonial tabard bearing Uttobric’s arms and holding with care a cushion on which lay a circlet of silver so
tipped and inset with diamonds that it appeared to outflash nearly all other surrounding jewels.

  There was a fresh blast of trumpets, even more ear torturing here within the confines of the hall than they had been in the open. The throng of courtiers standing below the dais quickly parted, rippling as all bowed or curtseyed to the solitary figure on whom centered all eyes.

  This time the Prince did not come in gear of war but rather, much in contrast to the other men there gathered, he wore breeches of a gray which was near black. A tunic of the same drab color was, however, near hidden by a tabard worked in such a splendor of metallic threads and gems as to nearly blind the eyes of those who watched him advance at a steady tread.

  The Duke twisted in his chair. Vazul had stepped forward to announce the Prince. Willadene was too far away to really distinguish the expression on the faces of any below, but she had the feeling that the Duke’s hatred for display was working on him, as, with a jerk of his hand, he summoned the squire into position beside his daughter.

  Mahart could see faces, but she wondered more about the thoughts behind them. She had heard her father sneeze twice and could well believe that he had waiting for her later a blast of anger for the spices which certainly clung jealously to her.

  Saylana was as blandly smiling as ever. But that smile was certainly now centered on the Prince, and Mahart herself viewed him as Vazul droned on concerning the mighty victory and the debt that Kronen owed this over-the-border stranger.

  Without his mail trappings Lorien did not seem as difficult to assess as he had been at the banquet. Only the brilliance of his tabard somehow made the man fade a little—he also could be one wearing, a little awkwardly, borrowed robes.

  “Kronen has known many heroes"—that was her father. “It is our greatest privilege at this hour to welcome a new one to those ranks—to the fore of those ranks! That one who is not bred of our land has yet cleared it of a growing evil is certainly an act designed by the mercy of the Star. And it is the Star’s own gift which is now offered him.”

  On the cue she had been waiting for, Mahart got to her feet and with both hands lifted the glittering circlet which the squire held ready. Lorien would not kneel, of course, since he owed no liege service here. But he did stand on the lower step of the dais, making it easier to settle the coronet on the head he bent slightly in her direction.

  Now, her flesh was tingling, since she was the one to give honor there would be no flourish of sword but another and far more personal part of the ceremony. The stiffness of her sleeves seemed to bind her arms as she lifted her hands so that they closed on Lorien’s gem-collared shoulders. Leaning forward (he might help her a little, she thought with rising irritation) she managed to give the kiss of honor, her lips barely brushing his cheek.

  He smiled, but it was but a form to suit the occasion, she was sure, as she drew back. Did his nose seem to twitch? Perhaps the spices wore on him even as they did on her father.

  But the Prince was holding out his arm and her father had already signaled the musicians above. She set her fingertips with the proper lightness of touch, allowing him to lead her down to the floor and into the stately march about the space left clear for dancing, which was the proper beginning of the ball.

  To Willadene above, that march was a rainbow round of color upon color. But her attention was mainly upon the High Lady and the Prince. How did it feel to meet so with one with whom one was to share all the favors and ills of life?

  At least he was young and well looking, and his men were bonded to him. But did a conquering hero make a good husband? Perhaps only High Lady Saylana could answer that in truth, and certainly rumor had stalled over the many whispers of how she and her late lord conducted their private moments together.

  The stir of lesser servants behind Willadene pressed forward, and Julta spat a warning as she was jostled. Already the grand march had drawn to an end and the dancing was to begin. Lorien dutifully led Mahart to form the first square, bowing as deeply as she curtsied in return.

  Perhaps swordplay in excess, Mahart decided, had something to give a man in the nature of grace in dance. Lorien did not caper as she had half expected, awkward since he was so rumored to avoid such occasions at his father’s court.

  And he continued to show a pleasant face, keeping his attention on his partner in a very complimentary fashion. She found that their patterned steps appeared to fit in a fashion she had never experienced before with any lordling in a duty dance, and she was both surprised and a little disappointed when the music ceased and their waving chain of dancers came to a halt.

  Once more, her fingertips on his wrist, he led her back to the dais where another chair had appeared without undue stir, placed beside her own. She flushed a little at that blatant hint that Lorien was to be considered her property. Still he showed no surprise. Had they already been arranging her future—Lorien, her father, and Vazul? A spark of anger as strong as her spices flared up at that thought.

  Somewhat frantically she tried to frame a sentence which might lead to conversation, but their worlds seemed suddenly so far apart that she could think of nothing, which added to her frustration. The more so when she saw the very confident and compelling stare Saylana had turned on her taciturn companion. Of course, since the Duke did not dance, it was now up to Lorien to lead out the second lady of the kingdom. And, as the musicians struck up again, he arose, bowed to Mahart, and went to Saylana, whose smile had all the heat of a midsummer day.

  Saylana had no trouble in finding some subject of conversation, Mahart noted as she watched the two meet and part as dictated by the courtly dance. And plainly Lorien was paying attention to her. Twice he smiled broadly and once he even laughed. Yes, this was a game Saylana knew well how to play.

  Mahart was suddenly not sure of anything. She had accepted her father’s plans for her eventual marriage, as she had accepted all of his other decrees concerning her actions. Somehow in her mind, until this night, any suitor had been but a kind of puppet set up to dance at the bidding of her elders. But Lorien was real in a different way—though her knowledge of men was certainly very narrow, limited mainly to secondhand information received from Zuta. Now she had a fleeting doubt as to whether all she had been told in the way of gossip was indeed united to truth.

  Suddenly even this large room seemed overheated, and she wanted to be free of it and all the company around her, allowed quiet to sort out this new jumble of thoughts. Above all she wanted to arm herself so that no action of hers, made in ignorance, would arouse the tittering amusement of those she had long ago guessed had no true liking for her.

  Willadene watched the circling, all the bowing and curtseying, the touching of fingertips to fingertips, and decided that certainly a court ball could be a tedious affair—unless one was playing some part of it. She was hungry and she was tired after her exertions to de-scent Mahart. Descent—something new to her experience and one she would greatly like to discuss with Halwice.

  Once more she studied the line of upper servants along the front of the balcony. Somehow she had thought that the Herbmistress would certainly be among them. But her dark gown could not be seen among the glitter of house badges and brilliant colors they affected. Even Julta had donned a rust-yellow dress, discarded her apron, and crowned her graying hair with a wisp of beribboned lace in place of her usual tight cap.

  A man in the livery coat of a footman had pushed up on the other side of the maid and was talking to her, but the music was an effective cover to conceal his words. Willadene did not recognize his house badge, but that did not mean that he was not indeed an old friend of Julta’s. She saw the maid nod and then turn to her—

  “There is a feast in the serving hall. My friend Jacham says that table is worth the visiting. Would you go with us?”

  Willadene shook her head. She was very sure that such an answer was one Julta wanted, and when the maid swiftly wriggled through the crowd with her escort she was certain—though the thought of food did have some a
ppeal. She need not force her company on the two already preceding her, but she could follow and lose herself in the company of those others who must be headed there.

  She had reached the door of that eating place when a whiff of more than roasting meat and pungent sauces caught her attention. There was a burst of giggling not far away and she saw one of the lower maids, her cap hanging by its string on her plump shoulders and her foolish face flushed with what Willadene guessed was already more than a prudent portion of the strong ale.

  She was clinging to the arm of one in the dress of an upper groom, grinning up into his face and now and then digging him in the ribs with her free fist. But—

  Figis! What was that disreputable townsman doing here? The last time she had seen him Willadene had noted that he certainly no longer presented the appearance of the ragged kitchen lad she had known. Now he was even more dressed like one who had a rightful place in some noble household.

  He tickled his companion under her ample chin and then gave her a smacking kiss which the maid appeared to accept as her just due. Now that Willadene could see her closer she recognized her— Hettel was one of the maids assigned to the High Lady’s apartments to collect the used linen and see that it was laundered. Usually she was a silent shadow, trained with the rigor of all palace servants. Her freedom of conduct tonight came as a small shock to Willadene, especially the person of her companion. But before she could answer her first impulse and shove through the crowd, to come close enough to perhaps hear what they were saying, a wedge of laughing, singing others had come between and they were gone.

  Yet Willadene now found it hard to follow her first plan and reach the table. She did not take time to try to find an open place on the benches—those were all occupied. But she did reach around one footman, who had half collapsed and was humming to himself, to catch up a meat tart and an apple.