by Andre Norton
As one who was satisfied with her own opinion, Halwice had nodded. “Do you smell such now?”
Willadene had tested the air about, which to her was soaked with such a wealth of scents it would have taken her a goodly time to list. But that which the Herbmistress had brought to her mind was gone.
“You see?” Halwice had not waited for her answer. “Even as you—I, also, possess, by Star’s Grace, that gift. You can be trusted; and you will be, for you have been swept into matters which are both great and dire. Now, bring me what you find within the niche there.”
Willadene had placed her hands as she had been ordered, and the seemingly solid board had given, sliding away even as the outer doors to the bed. Inside had been a box, and from it had issued a scent Willadene had never encountered before—it had been sharp and clear, almost like fresh, prickling brine. She had brought it to the Herbmistress, who had balanced it on her knees before she had opened it.
Like the shelves in the shop cupboards without, the interior of the box had been divided into many compartments, each with its own lid, while fastened within the coffer of the chest itself had been a flat dishlike platter no larger than two hands pressed together.
“This"—Halwice had wrestled it loose from its hold— “must be placed on him heart-high.”
Willadene had taken it quickly and had done just that, seeing that it rested steadily. Halwice had already been opening the compartments. One or two she hesitated over and reclosed, but from the chatelaine clipped to her girdle she had already freed another small but deeper measure, and into this, with the spoon chained to its edge, she had shifted first this and that—
The tingling sharp scent had grown ever stronger. Yet it had not been unpleasant. Instead, it had appeared to clear the head, made Willadene, in an unprecedented way, much more aware of all about her.
The spoon had then been used to stir the powders together. Halwice, her hands so busied, had pointed with her chin.
“Beneath the bed pillow—a bag. Bring it!”
It had not been as large as a purse, and Willadene had found it was full of what felt like pebbles.
“Open"—Halwice had been still stirring—"but take care.”
Willadene had untied the knot of the drawstring, and open it she did—to shake into hand that which caught and reflected the light as if they glowed with inner fire. Jewels—but none had been cut to use. They were like fragments of larger pieces which had been deliberately shattered.
“Now"—Halwice had edged her stool a fraction forward—"you must set a pattern, and it must be even as I tell you, for this can only be done once—and without fault. Search what you hold for two white crystals and place them above the crown of Nicolas’s head.”
Willadene had obeyed; at least the stranger had at last been given a name.
“Now choose blue, each one to be put halfway between those already set,” continued the Herbmistress.
Last of all, Halwice had held out the bowl whose contents she had been energetically stirring all the while.
“Shake what lies within this on the heart plate, gently—it must not spread too far.”
Diligently the girl had done just that. It had not puffed out as she had expected such ashy material to do, but formed a small mound.
“Look you now for the starred crystal,” came the next order, and that she had done.
There had been such, not so unformed as the others, and smoother-edged but centered with an unmistakable star-shaped heart.
“Thrust that into the powder!”
Willadene had obeyed. It had been as if she had applied a snap light, for smoke had begun to rise. About a hand’s space above its source it had split into six equal trails, and each one of those had set out to touch a jewel.
The sharp clean scent had made Willadene feel that she herself, if she wished it, could have risen from the floor where she crouched, taken on wings, and soared beyond the world she had always known. Halwice had been speaking again, but not to give her an order.
Instead, the Herbmistress’s voice had risen and fallen in a chant which had been like a song, needing no harp to keep in mastering tune. The words had been strange, and the crooning had seemed to slur them together at times.
Now the smoke had woven a cloud above nearly half of the quiet body. The girl could no longer see his face. Halwice’s body had rocked back and forth slightly as she’d continued to chant.
Willadene had caught a glimpse of the Herbmistress’s features across the inert body. The woman had plainly been under great strain, yet she herself dared not move to give her any aid.
The smoke forming that sight-repelling mask had moved again. Willadene had been sure she could detect tendrils drawing back into their source. And she had been right. But there had been nothing on the plate, not even scorch marks of any burning. And the brilliance of the gems had dimmed.
Halwice’s head had fallen on her breast as if she could no longer hold it upright. Without orders Willadene had leaned over to gather up the gems and restore them to the bag. Then that dark-haired head had moved, and eyes of a gray of a steel blade and with the same grim threat in them had stared up at her.
“Who by the Horns of Gratch are you?” His voice had been low, hardly clearer than a whisper, and it had come like a cat’s challenging hiss.
Willadene had hurriedly hunched back as he’d used his elbows to lever himself to a near-sitting position. He had looked around, caught sight of Halwice, and frozen in that awkward pose. Then his head had swung again so he could see Willadene, and in that moment she had realized just what he was viewing—the grimy, tatter-clad drudge of the inn.
Then he had moved swiftly, with far more speed than she could have thought possible for that supine body of moments earlier. Before she’d been able to draw herself farther back his fingers had twisted in her hair, bringing pain as he jerked her upward until they were both standing.
Still keeping his tight grip on her he had begun a careful survey of the whole room, which ended by centering on the Herbmistress.
“What have you wrought here!” He had jerked the girl’s head back and forth by that hold in her hair, and those steel eyes had been sword points to strike her.
“Let be!” Halwice had straightened on her stool. “You are always too ready to leap for answers—1 thought you had learned the folly of that, Nicolas. Loose Willadene! Had it not been for her aid—yyHow long does a man last in the Deep Sleep?”
“What does she here?” he had demanded, but he had loosened his grip and she was able to pull her head back and away from so close a vicinity so that he could not so seize upon her again.
“The Will of the Star.” Halwice had the sharp tone of an adult dealing with a child. “Had it not been for her provident coming to the shop, we would both be deep in that she-serpent’s net.” Swiftly she had outlined what Willadene had discovered, and her efforts on their behalf thereafter. The girl had longed to interrupt that it was Halwice’s welfare she had been concerned with and not that of this boor.
“I brought the packet from Arwa—as usual. He met me at the Fork’s Border Inn and showed me the seal upon it, knowing I was coming to Kronengred. It was no different—” Then he had paused and scowled. “So they used me, did they—Arwan—” His hand had gone to the belt where rode a sheathed knife longer than any ever intended for an eating tool.
“Arwan’s part in this we shall learn in due time.” Halwice still had a note of impatience in her voice. “The important thing is here and now. You came over border with a message. You have already been delayed since well beyond First Bell in the delivery of it. I suggest that first things be met in the proper order. And this, I believe—” her hands had groped among her bodice lacings to bring out the coin-shaped seal Willadene had found on the floor “—is yours. Best be on your way.”
But it had seemed that he had not been ready to yield to the authority Halwice used.
“The girl—” Now he had looked once more at Willadene.
> “She is my affair, Nicolas. I warn you, one does not meddle with the moves of fate. Now go.”
And go he had, not through the shop but out back to traverse the herb garden, clearly in search of the same entrance which had brought Willadene there earlier.
“Nicolas serves his master well,” the Herbmistress had begun when he was gone. “Now—you will forget him!”
Willadene had blinked and then nodded. Curiosity might be alive in her, but she had had good reason to sense that this was no time for questions. Halwice had surveyed her up and down, and once more the girl had been aware of the grubby appearance she must have presented at that moment.
“Get the kettle, the largest one"—Halwice had gestured toward the hearth—"and set a fire for it. So Jacoba would take bride price for you from Wyche? That can be speedily taken care of. For your own sake, girl, you must be under my hand. There is this much true—good gold would be paid for noting what had passed here when repeated to the right person.”
Willadene had stiffened. Nicolas might well have been a spy—perhaps even so Halwice—but she was no talebearer and never had been. She knew—knew by the aid of her gift—that there was no evil in the woman facing her, and whatever she had done earlier she might truly confess to the Star and go unchided.
“Yes. We know—for, girl, we are of the same breed, only I have been forged like a fine smith’s weapon, and you are but raw material. I know you have long wanted to come to me, but there was a reason that I should not arouse Jacoba’s malice fully against the two of us. Today has changed all that.
‘‘Bring me now one of the small measures and the third bottle from the left on the second shelf near the window of the shop.”
When Willadene had returned Halwice had tried to take both objects from her, but the woman’s hands had been shaking so hard she had not been able to manage to hold either safely.
“Age comes to all of us,” she had said bleakly as if she spoke the thought aloud. “Take this, pour you from the bottle into the measure until it reaches this line graven in the glass—do it!”
The girl had nodded emphatically, and with the care she had always seen the Herbmistress use in putting together any mixture, she had allowed a green liquid to fall hardly more than a couple of drops at a time into the measure. Around her had wafted a fresh, clean scent she could not have put name to but which she wished would wash every smirch, every bruise, every scar from her body, for she had a strong feeling it might well be able to do just that.
Halwice had taken the measure in both shaking hands and held it to her lips. She had drunk steadily until the last green drop was gone. For another moment she had sat quietly and then she was on her feet moving as briskly as Willadene had always seen her do.
“Well enough.” She reached out to take the bottle from the girl’s hand. “Now the immediate affairs are our own.”
Setting the bottle carefully on the table, she had moved to a chest so old that time had scrubbed away nearly all the painted patterns from its wood. When she had lifted the lid there had been another rush of scent which Willadene recognized came from herbs laid up to preserve clothing from moth and mildew.
Halwice had brought out a bundle tied together with a length of narrow cloth. She had set this on the table and then pointed toward a very large basin, nearly as tall as Willadene herself, where it leaned against the back wall.
“I have no scullery maid,” Halwice had announced. “Those who serve me from time to time go in better guise. Take the kettle water to warm that from the bucket and let us see what lies under all that which plasters you now. Then dress yourself in these.” She had thumped the bundle. “In that box is soap. See that you use it well on both body and hair. No one with the nose can wish to remain as you are now. I shall be in the shop. It has been closed too long. We are very near the time of the noon bell, and when I go out on errands I am seldom gone past that.”
She had looped aside the curtain, and Willadene had set about obeying orders. Though the basin was no bath such as a noblewoman could soak herself in, the girl had found she could crouch in its water warmed by the supply from the kettle, and she had set about such a scrubbing with the soft soap scooped from the box as she had not been able to do for years. Though as she’d bathed, washed her hair, and washed it yet a second time, she had begun to remember times when she had been as free with water and soap as she was now.
There had been a rough towel; and she had moved closer to the small fire as she’d rubbed herself dry, ashamed of her hands where the skin seemed still cracked with gray lines in spite of all her efforts. The bundle had yielded a chemise which had not been too large that she could not pull it snugly about her. Then there had been a shirt with short sleeves, made for a worker who needed full use of her hands. It had had a line of green braid, which Willadene had caressed with a loving finger. Last had been a skirt, full and a little too wide for her waist, but she had been able to belt it in with the same piece of material which had held the bundle together. And they’d all been clean, fragrant from dried flowers which had fluttered in the air as she’d pulled free each garment.
So had begun her life in Halwice’s shop and home. And Willadene found that to be equal to that life in brightness and beauty which the Star promised the faithful.
Of course, the Reeve’s messenger appeared and with Halwice she had been summoned to face all the majesty of the law which had been indifferently placed on Jacoba’s side. But to the girl’s astonishment the innkeeper was subdued, her roaring anger hidden—if it still existed. She had tried to bring up the point that Willadene was a bespoken bride, but two or three skillful questions had dismissed that, since it had been apparent the girl had had no say in the matter.
That was the last of Jacoba, Willadene had thought, with a great feeling of being free of a smothering burden, as she had left with Halwice, her apprenticeship duly countersigned by two Reeves now—that of Jacoba’s quarter and that who kept the Duke’s peace in Halwice’s.
It certainly had been plain at this meeting that the Herbmistress was of consequence in Kronengred and that her word was accepted without question.
However, during the days which followed, questions she hardly spelled out even for herself troubled Willadene from time to time. The trade in the shop was brisk, and, yes, strange merchants or their assistants came from time to time to deliver products from far beyond Kronen.
Among these were what Willadene came to consider special ones. Two had been delivered once after nightfall by the back alleyway and those who brought them had been given a number of coins which they promptly hid about their persons. Most of these visitors hardly ever seemed to even realize that the girl was there, and she kept mouse still, busying herself with some task of sorting, labeling, or generally setting the shop in order.
However, as much as she tried to efface herself, their quarters were cramped and there was little chance for any true privacy, so she listened. What passed between Halwice and many of these visitors was cryptic, making no sense to Willadene, but about none of them ever clung the cloying, rotten smell of evil.
Twice Nicolas had turned up—once openly in the shop, wearing a fine dark-red jerkin bearing the Chancellor’s arms on both shoulder and breast, with an ordinary request for a product which calmed nerves and allowed sleep. He scowled when Halwice directed Willadene to make up the dosage. It was plain that he had no trust even yet in the girl.
“I hear,” Halwice said, “that Her Grace did well for herself at the court. She is comely enough and appears to carry her position well.”
Nicolas made a sound which was not far from a snort.
“Yes, it made a fine show. Even the High Lady Saylana could find little fault, I understand. But this is true, mistress: the Duke may have come to his rule cross-sidely but he will make every effort to hold it. And what is in a father may also lie in a child.”
“The Lady Zuta still stands at her right hand?”
He was frowning now. “How else can it be?
His Highness kept all others from Her Grace. But it is with that Lady Zuta as it is with my Lord Chancellor—only if His Highness remains in position to grant favors will she herself prosper.”
“There are some strange tales from over the border—” Halwice continued placidly. “It would seem that the royal family there also has its problems.”
“That is none of the business of Kronen.” Nicolas shrugged. Then suddenly he changed the subject. “Is it indeed true, mistress, that there be scents which can ensnarl a man—not blast him, mind you, as was attempted here—but weave him to the purpose of another without his knowledge of what is happening?”
“There are said to be such—woman’s weapons—” Halwice replied.
His teeth showed in a very unpleasant smile. She regarded him steadily until that smile faded. “Well you should know what it means to fall even to the lightest of such traps. I would consider such a subject with care if I were you.”
He grinned again, this time like the youth he seemed to be. “Well enough—there are rumors aplenty always flying about to mystify a man—Who needs to believe such? My lord’s thanks for your services—”
Willadene had carefully stuffed the small pillow she had been busied with, now sealing it with a paste which would unite that opening past all forcing. She slid it across the counter to him.
His next visit was three days later and this time after nightfall, heralded by a soft knocking at the back door. Willadene looked to the Herbmistress, and at her nod slipped out the bar latch. This time Nicolas wore no well-cut and fitted clothing, certainly no identifying tabard of the Lord Chancellor. Instead, a long black cloak muffled him from chin, with rolls of a thrown-back cowl, to his booted ankles.
Halwice, without a word, went to a cupboard and brought out a pouch too rounded certainly to carry much wealth and giving forth no clink as she handled it. Nicolas caught it and it vanished beneath his cloak.
“The border?” That was no statement, rather a question.