by Andre Norton
“Kaspard Fancher!” the Princess repeated.
“I fear”—the Colonel had dropped his voice a little—“that our period of favoring fortune is over. Fancher is—”
“I know well what he is,” Ludorica interrupted. “Which means that Reddick has given me credit for trying to reach King Gostar. But he also knows that I am not altogether stupid, however much he wishes that so. Very well. Fancher may be riding with all the support the Duke can raise for him, but Reddick is not yet King of Reveny, nor even close to the throne. I am the Princess, and Imbert Rehling was my father’s good friend. He will smooth my path to Gostar, and Reddick cannot prevent that.”
“If we reach Rehling—”
“The Court is at Gastonhow, so all ambassadors will follow. It is early in the season for such a move, but King Gostar cherishes this young second queen of his. The rumor has it that she may present him soon with a princeling—so he has brought her to drink the waters of the Faithwell.”
“Superstition!”
“Perhaps—but then again perhaps not. There was a Guardian at the Faithwell; that has been attested to beyond any doubt. And also there have been many cases of women in difficult childbirth being soothed by its waters. Why, Gastonhow was built by Queen Marget because she feared to lose her fourth child, having three others die as she still lay in bed from the bearing of them. She stayed there during the major part of her time of carrying and thereafter bore five sons and three daughters with no ills.”
“History! What does it matter now about Queen Marget? If the court is at Gastonhow and Fancher goes here we must be very sure of our ground. Best send a messenger—”
“But why should we not just push on the faster to Gastonhow ourselves?”
“Not until I am sure what awaits us there.”
“Sure of what? That Fancher is here to make what trouble he can? We know that. Lord Imbert will prevent him from seeing the King, and he cannot work mischief with Imbert himself. But—perhaps—Perhaps you are right, Nelis. It is better not to spoil our plans now for the want of a little caution. And I shall give the messenger that which will get him speedy speech with Lord Imbert.” The Princess pulled at one of her long braids, breaking loose five hairs, which she counted carefully before she knotted them together. “Now a resuah leaf—”
“Games?” asked the Colonel.
“Games—with a purpose. But a game Lord Imbert will remember, for I shared it with him. It was when he came to me after my father was newly dead. He had taken me to his Lady Ansla—she who was High Lady of Kross in her own right—for the King would have me away from the Court as he ailed. Lord Imbert liked the old tales. He has ordered many of them collected from the Tork singers and copied out that they may not be forgotten. And one was of the Lost Lady of Innace. The geas which was laid on that lady was broken by leaf and hair. Yes, he will remember and listen to your man.”
The Princess had been searching through the vegetation around and now made a swift pounce, catching up, earth-covered root and all, a plant with long narrow leaves. The largest of these leaves she twisted free, wrapping her knotted hair about it.
After their messenger departed, mounted on the duocorn Imfry judged their best, they headed on at a much-curtailed pace. Here, close to the heights where they had crossed the border, the country was wooded, so that they had to turn into one of those overhung, branch-roofed lanes. And this brought them to a bridge which was more ornate and even wider than the road they had come, as if the latter had once been a more important thoroughfare than it now was. On the opposite side of that arch was a small single-story tower, built in the form of a triangle firmly wedded to the bridge. Even the two very narrow windows in it were wedge-shaped.
“Have you any way money?” Ludorica asked the Colonel. “I see this is a vow bridge.”
“An old one. The vow must have long since been fulfilled.”
“How can we know that? Have you money for the alms slit?”
He brought a small bag from the front of his tunic, passed it back to the Princess.
“Be sparing with that, Your Highness. I had no time to gather a fortune before we left.”
She loosened the drawstring, felt within the bag, and pulled out a round of metal.
“A plume will suffice. We travel with clean hands and no malice at heart.”
As they came to the three-cornered building, the Princess leaned from her pillion and tossed the coin into the open window near to hand.
“For the good of him who built the way, for the good of those who walk the way, for the good of the journey, and the good, surely, of its final ending,” she intoned as if speaking some formula.
“His name”—she moved her forefinger through the air, tracing the curves and angles of some weather-worn carving on the wall—“was Niklas and he was lord of—The stead seal is too badly worn to read. But it is a good omen that we ride by one Niklas’s favor!”
The road ahead was not concealed by drooping tree branches, but rather edged with hedge walls. It was wider, also, and the dust of its surface was slotted with wheel ruts and hoof prints, as if the road which joined from upriver brought more traffic.
No longer could the duocorns be kept to a steady trot. When their riders stopped urging them, they fell into an amble. The morning they had met in the pass was now well advanced. They had broken their fast in the hills but Roane was hungry again. And it seemed to her stiff body that they had been riding or walking for half a lifetime. Those with whom she traveled seemed to need little rest.
Suddenly Imfry reined in his mount, held up his hand. One of the duocorns blew and then was silent. Far off Roane heard it now—the sound of a horn, clear and carrying.
CHAPTER 8
ROANE STOOD AT THE WINDOW. Between her fingers she held caressingly the soft folds of the heavy curtain. She loved the feel of that, the strange luxury of the room behind her—it was like coming out of the cold to the warmth of a welcoming fire. As yet it was early morning, and no one seemed to stir in the great house. But there was life in the street before its tall courtyard gates.
A boy had come out of a shop, sprinkling down the cobbles before the door from a holed can which he sloshed back and forth without care, nearly sending its spray on the wide skirts of a passing woman. Those skirts were gray, with scarlet flowers bordering them, to match in vivid color the bodice of her dress. She walked with a free, swinging step, one hand raised to balance a basket on her head, its contents hidden by a covering of leaves.
She was only the first of a small procession of such wayfarers, their gray and scarlet almost a uniform, each with a basket aloft. The boy with the sprinkler cried out something and they turned smiling faces to him. It was all like watching a live tri-dee.
Roane remembered her impression of the house as they had come to it the night before. It was large, three stories high at least, all of stone, the windows on the lowest level being very narrow. There was no growing thing to break the drabness of the courtyard pavement, and the only spot of color was the symbol on the house face—she could see an edge of it from here—facing the gate, representing the might of Reveny.
She had not met the ambassador on whom Ludorica relied so much. In fact she had not even seen the Princess since they had entered a side door and been shown almost furtively through dark hallways by a single servant. Though she could not complain about the room in which she stood, nor the willing serving maid she had sent early away. Only—Roane felt uneasy as well as somehow charmed by her surroundings.
All of it had a dreamlike quality. Though in the beginning it had been more of a nightmare when that horn blast had sent them into quick hiding. There had been a troop of horsemen, and the identity of two of the riders had disturbed the Princess and the Colonel, though neither had explained why to Roane. Instead of pressing on themselves after that other party had passed, they had waited until nightfall. Then they had ridden hard, across fields many times, to reach a crossroads. There they were overtaken by a carriage, curtain
ed at the windows, with four of the large draft duocorns to draw it.
Their messenger rode on the box beside the driver, and the letter he delivered to the Princess banished the shadow from her face. She waved it triumphantly before the Colonel.
“Did I not say so? Lord Imbert gives us good welcome—and certainly softer travel. Ah, I feel as old as the hills with every bone in my body aching to tell me so!”
The interior of the carriage was dark, but no one raised its curtains. Roane found it hardly more comfortable than riding, in spite of Ludorica’s words. The swaying of the body on a sling of straps—which took the place of any springs—made her queasy. But her companions settled back against the cushions as if this were the height of comfort, and the Princess went to sleep, her head against Roane’s shoulder.
Twice they stopped for fresh animals, and the second time a basket of cold but good food was handed in. Only Roane, hungry as she might have been under other circumstances, could but nibble and wish herself back in normal life.
They had come to Gastonhow in the middle of the night. And she had fallen half-dazed into the great curtained bed behind her. But for all her fatigue she had awakened early, as if she had been alerted by some inner alarm.
Now she turned from the window to view the room again, seeing much more than the limited lamplight had shown her.
The bed, which dominated the room, was extremely large, almost a quarter the size of a camp bubble. Having most of her life fitted into very narrow spaces, in camp, on board ship, she was not used to such freedom. It stood on a two-step dais and had four posts carved with flowers and leaves to support a canopy with curtains that Roane had not suffered the maid to draw about her, tent-fashion, the night before. Both the curtains and the cover on the bed were fancifully patterned by needlework.
All the colors were bright, almost too strident for her taste. The walls were boldly painted with designs in the same shades. There was a table with a wide mirror, a backless stool set before it, to her left. On her right stood a tall cupboard with double doors. And there were chairs, stools, and a smaller table or two scattered around.
She moved before the mirror to gaze at her reflection. The white folds of just such a night robe as the captive Princess had worn hung about her slim body. Against that her weathered hands and face looked very dark and brown. Her short hair had grown enough since she had left Cram-brief to form a fluff on her forehead and behind her ears. And that too was odd against her deep tan, for the locks were a pale yellow-brown which sometimes held a hint of red when the sun touched them.
By the standards of her own civilization Roane had no beauty and had early learned to accept that. And, since her roving life had taken her into the wilderness of unknown worlds, she practiced none of the cosmetic arts used by the women of the inner planets. Beside the Princess she was certainly very insignificant. How much so, she had not realized until now.
There was an array of pots and bottles on the table. Roane sat down eyeing them, wondering who had supplied these, what they held. Then, emboldened, she investigated. The first was a small yellow pot, very smooth to her fingers, lidded by a stopper fashioned as a half-opened flower. It contained a paste with a sweet smell. She ran a fingertip tentatively over it but had no idea what might be its use. As her explorations continued she made many guesses. There were smaller pots of red which perhaps colored lips or cheeks, though she had not seen anyone wearing the elaborate designs painted on forehead, cheek, or chin which were in high favor on some worlds. There was one narrow box of black stuff flanked by a tiny brush—and more beautifully shaped bottles and flagons, each of which held a sweet scent.
“My lady?”
Roane started and nearly dropped a delicate transparent bottle. Over her shoulder in the mirror she saw the maid carrying a tray on which rested a covered bowl and a cup.
Roane gave the morning greeting of Reveny. “Sun and a fair wind rising—”
“With thanks to you, Lady. Will you morn-sup now?”
There were berries in the bowl, intermixed with what seemed cooked grain, sweet contrasting with tart. The mug contained a thick, hot drink she could not identify. She was sipping at that when the door opened again and she faced the Princess.
Now Roane saw her in clothing becoming her station—the full-skirted dress of a deep green, with wide lace flecked with threads of silver turned back in cuffs, a collar of the same dew-and-cobweb material lying on her shoulders. The hair which had swung in braids during their journeying was now piled and pinned into an imposing structure on her head. There was about her such an air of consequence that Roane arose to pay her tribute.
“Roane.” Ludorica did not move with a stately gait but sped across the room to catch the off-world girl’s hands in hers. “We are safe here. And my good Lord Imbert has gone to speak to the King. Fortune has favored us. And once we see King Gostar—” She laughed. “Oh, Roane, you will enjoy it here! There will doubtless be a ball—did I not say he had sons to be settled, and what better way can a gallant display than at a ball? And we will ride in the Brogwall in an open carriage as is the fashion and—and—and—”
The Princess could be any girl from one of the inner planets thirsting for pleasure. But Roane found she could not match the other’s high spirits. And Ludorica must have quickly sensed her lack of response, for she lost some of her sparkle as she asked:
“What is it, Roane? Truly we are safe here, perhaps more so than in Reveny, until the full of Reddick’s schemes be known. And you—you do not have to fear losing your memory or being shut in a prison. This is a day for a light heart, not a sober face. Or perhaps yours merely looks sober because you are still wearing a night robe. White is not a color which becomes you! But that is speedily remedied.”
She pulled upon a bell rope and the maid returned, to scurry about under a rain of orders so quickly delivered, Roane was not sure of their number or kind.
It was later, when she sat once again looking into the mirror, that the dream seemed even stronger. There were drugs, forbidden drugs, which could do this to one, produce an alternate life for their user, so entrancing a life that he or she clung to the fantasy, fought return to reality. She had not used those and yet she was enmeshed—surely that reflection was not of any Roane Hume she knew.
The soft fabric of her gown was a shade of yellow, but woven in such a way that each fold as she moved was overcast by a hint of rose. Lace, not as wide or as ornate as that which bedecked the Princess, but still finer than any other she had ever seen, ruffled about her brown wrists, rose a little behind her head to make a fragile frame for her thin neck. Not for her the piling of hair, but rather a lace cap curving to a point over her forehead, from which folded back two wired wings, as if an alien bird had settled there.
And her face—they could not take away the browning that years of exposure had painted on her, but they had made knowing use of the contents of many pots and bottles. So that brown was enhanced, and she was vividly alive as she had never seen herself before. Viewing herself so, she gained the courage natural to her sex, the armor a woman dons by knowing she looks her best.
Ludorica clapped her hands and laughed. “My Lady Roane, but this is how you were always meant to look! Not to go in that ugly dress like a man. Why do you desire to look so plain when it is not necessary? Do you not know, dear Roane, that it is the true duty of any woman to look the best she can, no matter how the Guardians may have designed her face at birth? Come now, you must learn to walk properly in skirts, my dear-like-a-man-that-was!”
Exiling her doubts to the back of her mind, Roane followed the Princess. They came out into a wide hall, one side of which was hung with panels of needlework between other strips painted in the same bright colors which had lightened the bedroom. The other wall had windows, four of them set out in bays. And those windows were checkerboarded with clear and colored glass, the colored being wrought in complicated patterns. Overhead the ceiling was molded in balls and leaves in high relief, those a
lso painted. And at the far end was a large fireplace, while at intervals down the length of the hall were braziers of metal on tripod legs, from several of which curled scented smoke.
There was no one in that hall, neither servant nor master. But when they went through the door at the far end and came to a staircase a man did appear, to stand at the foot of the stair awaiting them.
He uncovered his head (for he had been wearing a soft flat hat of colorful stuff with a big ornament of gold) as the Princess descended, and bowed. His clothing was richly trimmed with metallic embroidery and he fitted well with his surroundings.
“Your Highness—”
He was middle-aged and had allowed his facial hair to grow, a custom new to Roane, who knew only spacers, who went with smooth cheeks and sometimes even totally denuded heads so that space helmets would fit the better. But the lower part of his face was masked by wiry gray hair.
“My dear lord.” The Princess held out her hand. “You must meet my good companion, the Lady Roane Hume. Roane, this is Lord Imbert, who gives us shelter in our troubles.”
He bent his head to kiss the Princess’s hand. Then he turned a searching glance on Roane, one she found disturbing though she met him eye to eye.
“I am honored, my lord.” Gathering up the full folds of her skirt with either hand, she essayed what she hoped was a passable curtsy. She was not too graceful. And those eyes watching her had in them that which daunted her confidence.
“We have much to be grateful to you for, my lady, we of Reveny.” Unlike his stern and rather colorless outward appearance, his voice was warm and rich. Roane’s first estimate of him changed. When he spoke it was as if another person awoke behind the mask he presented to the world. “We have our Princess safe, and all who serve her now are very welcome.”
He bowed again with a smile. But when she watched him without listening to his voice, Roane felt a chill in his manner. Words could provide screens for thoughts. Though the Princess valued Lord Imbert Rehling so highly, Roane did not feel for him that trust the Colonel inspired in her.