by Andre Norton
“Take and hold,” she bade Willadene for the second time, and this time the girl silently counted to seven breaths before the next order came.
“Drop it into the bowl—then look therein, girl, with all which lies within you, look within!”
There was no room. She might have been standing on the shore of a very silent lake, watching without even a rippling of the water as shadows passed swiftly or with languid rolling, so vague in outline she could not have said what any of them might be.
But something within her made her try to hold those shadows as they slipped by. The effort she brought to that was like taking a full load of wood across her shoulders, but she held to it, tried and tried to see more clearly.
There was something which dipped and rose—she was no longer aware that this was even water in which it was fighting away. For fighting it was and against odds she could only guess at. It deepened, sharpened. Even as she had watched such on a summer evening winging out for their hunting, so did she see a bat. But that it was injured in some way—though she could not sight its wound—she was also sure.
She had to swallow twice before she could speak, for speaking somehow broke the effort of seeing, and even as she said the words aloud the creature melted into nothingness.
“A bat—hurt.”
She was not fully aware of the gasp of breath which came from outside this place, yet something she felt—a twinge of what was both pain and fear intermingled—and she was sure it had not come from the animal she had seen.
“Look on—look!”
The order was so demanding that Willadene forced herself to plunge faster and deeper.
This time the picture came clearer, snapping out of nowhere as if a door had burst open. There were certainly rocks, patterned with lichen, wreathed in part with small fern fringes—yet not rocks of any building in Kronengred that she had ever seen. And in a pocket between the two largest of these, their sides forming an arch over it as if to protect the fragile-stemmed star-shaped bloom, stood what she had imagined Heart-Hold to be when she had read or heard the tale of its gifting to man.
She must have spoken the name aloud, for suddenly her feeling of being otherwhere was broken. Hands were on her shoulders steadying her, but not until from that flower had spread to her such a fragrance as she knew that in all her lifetime she would never forget.
“So—that is the way of it!” Halwice’s voice sounded from far off and then close. “Let it be— But the path may be long and the way dark.”
There was only the table and on it the bowl of water at the bottom of which lay the stone the girl had tossed within. But she had to steady herself with both hands on the edge of the table, for it seemed that she could still catch that scent, as overpowering as the strongest of the autumn ale.
Well above that house and room the Duke sat huddled in his chair, his robes which always looked, when worn by him, as if they had been tailored for another man, creased about him. He had doffed his ducal coronet and held his aching head in both his hands.
Uttobric had never been a social creature, and the older he grew the more he hated these parades of pomp which were expected. But the power itself—if one has been insignificant and overlooked for most of one’s life, the butt of a scoffing court—power was a heady wine and he was not about to surrender it. For years he had been a nobody, the least of his clan. Now he need only affix his seal to a scrap of paper and one of those who had sneered so openly would be naught.
Still that was not so—not yet. And he knew it, tasted it like a sour bile rising in his throat.
“Well,” he said now, “was Kronengred suitably impressed?” He had no desire to see the expression on Vazul’s face.
“The move was the strongest you could have made,” the Chancellor returned promptly. “Fortune favored you, Your Highness, with a daughter who can be a mighty weapon—if she is properly honed.”
Uttobric threw himself back in his chair now, his long robe crushing against his spine.
“And you will see to that,” he commented, watching the other with half-hooded eyes. “Only keep this in mind, my Chancellor, it is with me you rise—or fall—”
What he might have added to that was lost as the black creature on Vazul’s shoulder suddenly leaped with a speed and agility which carried her near across the room. The Chancellor wheeled to watch her, and his hand was already on the hilt of the dagger in his belt sheath.
Ssssaaa made straight for the darkly paneled wall and reared against that, digging claws into the age-old wood, the usual hissing cry she uttered rising to a high note.
It took but three strides for Vazul to reach that panel, for the Duke to get to his feet, tearing at the fastening of his state cloak to free himself from its hampering folds.
The Chancellor’s hands sought hidden releases. For a moment they faced only a dark hole, but into that darted Ssssaaa and Vazul, blade bared now in his hand, followed. Then, as the Duke approached the same opening, he heard an exclamation of pain only a little louder than a moan.
Vazul’s back was now once more in the doorway as he retreated into the room, his hands no longer holding steel but rather drawing after him a body which struggled a little as if it would throw off that clutch. Stretching his catch on the floor the Chancellor hastened to reclose the door, while Uttobric stooped over the man who was struggling to sit up but subsided with a gritting of teeth.
“You were followed?” the Duke demanded, glancing at that strip of paneling and then back again.
“I lay there—” The other’s voice was a thread of sound. “There was no one following.”
“Nor would there be.” Vazul near elbowed the Duke out of the way as he knelt in turn, one hand sending the wounded man flat on his back before he busied himself with loosening a greasy, latched jerkin and was able to pull it back and away from the other’s left shoulder.
Ssssaaa had crouched by the man’s head and with fore-paws was patting sweat-stiffened hair. He they worked on closed his eyes and suddenly his head fell to one side. The Duke started back.
“Dead?” he demanded.
“Not yet.” The Chancellor raised the rolling head a little and bent closer. “There is the stench—”
“Poison!” Now the Duke backed away even farther.
“It is often a trick of the night prowlers. But caught in time— We must not only save the Bat if we can but learn quickly what he struggled against death to bring us.”
“He can be saved?” Uttobric continued to stare down at the body as if he expected to see it crumble into nothingness before his eyes. “You have the knowledge?”
Vazul shook his head. “Not I, Your Highness. But there is certainly one within Kronengred who can return him to life if any mortal can.”
The Duke was nodding. “The Herbmistress, yes.”
“However,” the Chancellor said hastily a moment later, “we cannot leave him here—and tonight is the ball—before that the feasting—at which we must both appear or there will be those who are overinterested as to why we are not.
“The ball will draw the majority of the servants into the west wing.” Vazul had now gotten the blood-stiffened shirt free and was loosening a swathing wad which had been stuffed in over the source of the blood flow. “There remains—Black Tower.”
The Duke plucked at his lower lip. “Yes, there has not been one held there for half a century or more—not since Duke Rotonbric went raving mad. But how do we get him there?”
“Only by the inner ways, Your Highness. And I must have help to take him, since he is more weight than I can bear that far. Danerx—”
The Duke stared at the man on the floor as if he wished him well away. “Danerx,” he said slowly. “At least the man is loyal to me—or I would be dead long since.” One side of his thin lip quirked upward. His robe tumbling after him, he went to the bell pull hanging on the far wall and gave two vigorous tugs.
He need have no fear that Danerx, his valet, would not be just where he was supposed
to be—two doors away, laying out the garments for both the feasting and the ball. What a deal of time one wasted in this dressing up for such occasions. Uttobric thought fleetingly that unfortunately there were going to be more of them until their plans bore fruit.
The summons for Halwice came after dusk and secretly. Willadene heard only swift whispers at the back door as if the visitor must be gone as quickly as possible. Then the Herbmistress turned to the assembling of certain small boxes, flasks, and jars which she stowed away in a shoulder bag without a word of explanation. It was not until she was done and had reached for her cloak that she spoke at last.
“There is dire need and no one must guess the reason. I am expecting a shipment from overseas tomorrow. You will open the shop as usual and accept the packet—it is already paid for. If I am asked for, you may say that there is a difficult birthing and I was summoned in the night, you do not know where, nor when I shall return.”
She added nothing more, but Willadene was able to guess that it was not a birthing her mistress went to attend—she had noted only too well the choice of remedies, and most of them her recent learning equated with wounds.
“Go under the Star—” The girl did not think the woman even heard her, she slipped out of the back door so quickly.
Willadene turned back to eat her bread and cheese. The city was not quiet tonight. Even shut within these walls she could hear the sounds of the crowds. There would be many in the wide square below the castle where there would be free ale and cakes—giving the citizens of Kronengred at least a taste of the feast and the grand ball in the fortress above. Also there would be much to see in the splendor of the arriving coaches bringing noble families to the gathering. Willadene looked around the room in which she sat. Let Her Grace Mahart have all the delicacies, the prancing to stately music, and the rest of the celebrations for her special day; she, Willadene, was entirely content with what she did have here and now.
Halwice had not said when her precious packet was to arrive but when there had been no visit to the shop by First Night Bell, Willadene ceased to expect it. Any emergency which would take the Herbmistress away from her home must indeed be serious. Guesses were useless—if she were meant to know she would learn in time.
She went to bed at the usual hour, leaving only the night lamp burning in case of Halwice’s return, burrowing deep into the worn but lavender-scented coverlets of the trundle bed.
It was not until her eyes grew heavy that her memory turned to Halwice’s earlier play with the bowl and the candles. And, once she thought of that cleft in the rock and what had raised its proud head there, she tried to hold on to every detail memory supplied. Only, sleep came quickly.
Halwice had not returned when Willadene awoke in the morning and now uneasiness awoke also. Yet she made herself carry out her duties in the same order she would have done had the Herbmistress been there.
She had just taken down the shop shutters and made ready to open for business when a familiar voice hailed her.
“Ha, Willa, how goes it?”
Figis no longer wore the drab rags which had been his at the inn—but rather better clothing such as an apprentice in a small shop might have. He walked with something of a swagger. Though, Willadene noted, neither his bony hands nor his gaunt face was really clean.
“Well enough,” the girl answered shortly. She had never considered any beneath Jacoba’s roof ones to be trusted, and her earlier uneasiness was growing. “And the inn—”
“Paugh!” He actually spat on the paving stones. “There have been changes there—the old sow does not oink very loudly anymore.”
Taking that coarse expression to refer to Jacoba, Willadene was interested enough to ask: “Jacoba no longer keeps the inn?” She had heard no such rumor, but sometimes facts outran even gossip.
“It keeps her,” he returned somewhat cryptically. “But where’s the mistress? Here—I have a packet for her.”
He reached within the loosened lacing of his jerkin and pulled out one of those familiar squares so well fastened up in oiled silk.
“She was called to a birthing,” Willadene answered promptly, “but she told me that a shipment was expected and to take it in.”
He eyed her narrowly, turning what he held around in his hand as if he were in two minds about relinquishing it. “Don’t know ‘bout that. Wyche—” He stopped short as if that name had been a warning. “He who sent me said nothin’ about givin’ this to anyone save the mistress. But then he also said he’d have me ears offen my head did I not do as he told me. Wyche— Jacoba is afeared of him and there are others that come—maybe for orders.” Figis grinned. “Seems like he’s taken a shine to me. Don’t have to go luggin’ in greasy pans no more I don’t!”
He moved closer to Willadene. “I’ve learned a lot jus’ listenin’ around. The Duke, he ain’t as safe as he thinks he is—parading ‘round like a cock an’ showin’ off his daughter. There’s them as may bring him to heel jus’ like that!” He shifted the packet to one hand and snapped his fingers.
“You know what they’re sayin’ now—that young Lord Barbric has caught Her Grace’s eye. She led off with him at the ball last night and then never danced no more. She marries him and we’d see a might lot of changes hereabouts. And me, I’m gonna be ready for the pickin’s—that I promise you. Oh, well, take this— I got me other important business—”
He thrust the packet at her and strode off, his thin legs trying to hold the important thud of a district guard but falling far short of that.
Willadene missed that exit, for she was staring down at the packet. This was—evil—veiled but there. She certainly had not forgotten the trap in which she had found the Herbmistress and the Chancellor’s man many days ago. Was this another such—something wrong to be planted among Halwice’s supplies and then discovered to the hurt of her mistress?
The oiled covering felt slimy to her fingers, and she wanted to rid herself of it speedily. But she had no intention of storing it anywhere within the shop. Who knows—it might even be a source of contamination.
She swiftly sought the herb garden, stopping only to snatch up some garlic. Weaving broken bits of that about the packet she placed it on the ground on the barren spot where they spread the ashes each morning and snapped over it a flowerpot, pressing that down well into the ground.
This proved to be a busier day than was usual and she had a steady stream of customers—some housewives seeking cooking herbs, the up-nosed maids and waiting women from the castle in search of cosmetic supplies as if the rigors of the forenight’s ball had depleted such to an alarming degree.
There were a number of inquiries for Halwice, but Willadene could detect that no one seemed dissatisfied with the reason she gave for the Herbmistress’s absence. At the back of her mind was always that potted menace behind the shop, but no guard came marching for a search and gradually she relaxed. Halwice would know how to deal with it—she only wished that her mistress would return.
It was not until dusk gathered in that she did come. Her bag was no longer slung over her shoulder and her face was white and strained. Nor was she alone. By his stride and stance he was a guardsman, perhaps even an underofficer, but he was soberly dressed like any merchant.
Willadene hurried to reheat the kettle, prepared the herb tea she knew that Halwice found sustaining. While she worked she could feel her mistress watching her. The guard remained by the door as unmoving as if he were on duty in the castle.
“That which was to come—” Halwice spoke slowly as if she found even the formation of words an effort.
Willadene paused, teapot in hand. Certainly she must not speak in front of this stranger. She made her choice quickly.
“It has come and is planted,” she said deliberately, looking straight into Halwice’s tired eyes, “as you wished in the special ashed ground.”
It seemed to the girl that there was a spark deep in the Herbmistress’s eyes. But Halwice nodded as if she perfectly understood. She
took up her filled cup with both hands as if too weak to risk a single hold.
“Now—there is little time. Take fresh underclothing and your other dress. Also the book third from the right on the shelf. I cannot any longer be away from here, but there will be a heavy trust placed on you. Remember well your gift and use it at all times. The one you must nurse is sore hurt—but he is still with us. He must remain so if we can at all will it, by the aid of the Star. You will go with this guard—” She nodded toward the man who had not spoken. “Obey him, for it is his duty to get you safely to your goal. I have left instructions for you with the one now there. Perhaps—by tomorrow—enough will be resolved that I can see you again. This is true duty, child, and perhaps you are over young to assume it—but there is no other choice.”
Completely bewildered Willadene hurried to bundle up her scanty possessions, and the last she saw of Halwice, the Herbmistress was standing by the door watching them cross the garden.
8
Mahart lay back on the pillows of the wide bed and stretched her toes. She was well aware that sunlight was laying stripes across her from an opening in the heavy curtains, but she felt no desire to pull herself out of this slothful ease right now, though she had been well aware for some time of purposefully soft comings and goings beyond the privacy of the curtained bed itself.
Looking back it seemed to her now that several twenty days of living had been thickly packed between first ball and the promised events, and whenever she tried to sort out a clear memory it slid inexorably into another.
If yesterday was an example of what was going to be demanded of her as to continued patience in the future, she was dubious she could measure up. Then two faces loomed out of her muddled recall— Vazul—what did he really want of her?
She was well aware that his private meetings with her in the immediate past had been in the nature of schooling. Though he had not skimmed far below the surface in any of his accounts of this or that to do with the ducal court, he gave one the impression—perhaps deliberately, Mahart thought now, pursing her lips—that there were darkish depths and traps to be avoided.