by Andre Norton
Her charge was open-eyed now, and frowning again. On hands and knees Willadene crawled to him and firmly placed her hand over his mouth, at the same time nodding toward the door.
There were still muffled sounds to be heard from outside. However, Nicolas seemed to understand her warning and she took away her temporary gag, her fingers brushing over the stubble of his unshaven jaw.
The girl flattened herself down beside him, her lips very close to his ear. “Outside—strove to crawl through the door flap—”
His eyes widened a little and she saw that his lips were shaping visibly a second, single-word question.
“Who?”
She shook her head. This was certainly no time to explain her singular talent. She only knew that the one outside carried that same stench which had sickened her when Wyche had tormented her with his attentions—yet certainly the visitor was not that tavern lounger.
Had she the wealth of products which rested on the shelves of the herb shop—and a little time—she could have perhaps worked out a defense. What she waited for now was to have that one who had come so secretly summon help and force the door.
On impulse Willadene took from her own neck that thong which held her privately concocted amulet. At least she could move, but Nicolas was helpless against any such attack. Or was he? For into that tiny bag, sewn with thickly protective stitching only a fortnight past, there was a very ancient recipe against ill.
Even Halwice had averred that the Old Ones of the past had known more of the power of growing things than any modern herbalist. Much had been kept secret, those secrets dying with their holders. Finding Willadene drawn to what were her own oldest records Halwice had encouraged the girl in her researches.
Heart-Hold had not been the only growing gift for a world which would recognize its properties—though so much had been lost. Raising Nicolas’s head while he stared at her in amazement, she slipped about his throat the cord of the amulet.
But as that left her grasp she bent over, wracked by pain in her middle, bile rising. That stench closed her in, wrapped about her like a blanket. She saw Nicolas watching her, his first amazement fading to something else—a mixture of alarm and concern. Then his hand arose feebly and he pointed past her in the direction of the door.
There the lamplight was very faint, and yet there was a greenish glow drawing a line along the floor, outlining the bottom of the swinging panel. And it was more than light.
Clasping her hand tightly across her nose Willadene scrambled for the remedies the Herbmistress had left. One of those was all she could depend upon now. Perhaps the very fact of her gift made this assault so terrible for her.
She paid no attention to the dangling dosage spoon as her free hand closed about the bottle. Yet she dared not draw too heavily on its contents, for that in itself might bring her down.
Willadene drew a full mouthful from the flask. She held herself taut. This was like taking in coals to lie on the curl of her tongue, and she fought the muscles which would force her to spew it forth again.
She was no longer aware of any except her own pain and sickness, yet Nicolas seemed unaffected by what had come with that curl of green. It was past the door flap now, drawing itself in a snake’s form, as if it had more substance than mere light.
Once more Willadene forced herself to move, holding one hand pressed hard to her mouth, feeling as she went as if she were also writhing reptile fashion across the floor.
She would have only one chance and that she would make the most of—
The green line raised its foretip and swung back and forth as if it possessed eyes and were searching for prey. Willadene could hold no longer. Forcing herself to lean as closely as she could to that thing of the dark she spat forth all which was in her mouth—and the liquid struck true!
It was as if she had hurled a blazing hearth brand on the thing. Twisting, turning, appearing caught in the mess, it struggled wildly and then—was gone.
The girl huddled together. Her mouth was numb but—the smells her tormented nose now gathered in were only the honest ones of what had happened here. The overpowering stench of evil was gone. She silently thanked the Star for the thought which had protected them—that the remedy Halwice had concocted to fight wound rot had indeed been an enemy to this other thing.
She listened. There were no more wheezings from without. But the withdrawal of the Dark’s foulness had already assured her of that.
Still sick and shuddering, she longed for the comfort of one of Halwice’s soothing potions. Her face was down on her knees as she huddled, her arms tightly about her. There was that to be done—a sickroom must be kept as clean as possible. But at that moment she was too weak to move. She hardly heard the voice from behind her.
“Mistress, what was that which came?” There was no sharp note from Nicolas now.
Somehow Willadene turned her head so she could see him. He had braced himself up on one elbow and was staring at her as if she were one of the night goblins meant to frighten children into better manners.
In spite of the dryness of her throat she was able to give an order.
“Lie—down—would—you—tear that—open again?” Her words came so slowly. But from somewhere she found dregs of strength—enough to push, having to put all the protection her failed energy could summon—a footstool across the door flap. That exertion left her half lying across that would-be barrier, panting.
She must get to that remaining spot on the floor—but before she touched it—lest some of the evil still rest within—she must have her defense.
Wearily she crawled toward Nicolas. “The amulet—” She spoke between gasps as she was forced to rest every few lengths she won. “Give—”
His hand was already at his throat and on the cord. Without being able to lift his head too high from its support he worried it off, and finally it was hers once again.
“What did you do—?” He was certainly more alert than she had seen him since she came here. It was as if watching action itself was playing some part in his healing.
“That which was sent upon us was—evil.” She had puddled some of the water in a scarf to hand and rubbed it across her face. The numbness of the potion had faded and her mouth now only felt raw from the ordeal. “Halwice left the kill for wound rot.” And kill it certainly was, she thought with a faint flutter of amusement. Now that she was free of the stench she felt curiously light-headed, almost as if all about her was a mummer’s play to be laughed away.
“And that was what you spat upon the thing?”
Spat upon the thing, thought Willadene, a most courtly way of describing her action.
“I know not what it was.” Now she dared allow herself a drink from the flagon. “But, yes, I think that the dose of my mistress’s potion put an end to it. Only—who has such perverted knowledge as to summon such a thing?”
“Vazul—summon him, mistress. What moved through here he must know.”
Now Willadene allowed a weak laugh born of shock to break bonds. “Best we bring him a mop and a bucket—”
But she discovered that now she could pull up to her feet with the aid of a chair and, pushing the weight of that before her to keep her steady, she headed once more for the signal rope.
“That is the end of it,” Vazul said. “The fellow was mind blocked.”
The Duke shifted in his chair. “Who has such powers—save the Star? And no one of the order would betray their beliefs so. You are certain?”
“As certain as seeing a dead man who gasps out his life when the question is put to him can be,” the Chancellor returned.
“Then—” the Duke’s hand rubbed across his chin and he peered piercingly at his servant “—there is something beyond our understanding. What said the Abbess?”
“She casts the crystals this night, Highness. But remember, those of the Star follow no lord’s leadership. They stand apart from any of our worldly disputes—though I believe that she was shaken when she heard of this woods-ru
nner who had a power not authorized by her own orders.”
“I trust,” the Duke said dryly, “that she is shaken enough to seek some sensible explanation—and that having found such she will share it with us. The Bat—”
“We found him in time, Highness. But that he will be able to carry out any ploy soon is another matter. Halwice affirms that he is past the danger point.”
“This girl of hers—”
“As you ordered, Highness. She may guess that she is in the castle, but that is all she knows beside the task she has been sent to do. However, Highness, this other news the borderer brought us. It would seem that the Bat was successful even though he had to suffer for it.”
“Losing us only one thing,” the Duke returned, “that one who went up from the city and whom the Wolf may acknowledge as master.”
“He will acknowledge him so no more. It was a neat bit of night attack. No wonder they hail the Prince as a master of war craft. And so, Highness, we can now move on to the next part of our game.”
“It will be no game"—the Duke sounded sour—"if our herald and his escort may be ambushed on the way.”
“Our borderer tells us the north road will be watched. The Hawker is calling in all but a thin screen of his forces to ensure that. And he, as is the Prince, is a man who understands this business. I have here—” from somewhere about the folds of his robe he produced a seal swinging from a chain ‘‘—the official seal of Kronen. That together with your letter of congratulations and welcome, the message delivered by the herald, will certainly hold the Prince’s attention.
“It was masterly, Highness, for you to so subtly suggest that Prince Lorien’s advice would be acceptable.”
The Duke quirked an eyebrow. “Well, every once in a while I do have a thought or two, you know, Vazul. And if Lorien accepts our invitation to celebrate his victory—’’
“When he accepts,” Vazul corrected him smoothly. “There will be a feasting, a jousting—the Prince has a liking for such entertainment—and, of course, a state ball—the High Lady Mahart to receive him and on your behalf present him with the victor’s circlet of the Star.”
The Duke’s lips pushed forward peevishly. “Another of these balls—!”
“Ah, but as your Highness well knows, the High Lady is in the first bloom of her youth and remarkably well looking. There may be others deemed more beautiful, but she seems to be born with a natural grace of person which makes her noticeable in any company, even if her rank were not known. And balls are the proper meeting places for ladies and their would-be suitors.”
He was smiling, but those lips thinned as hurling through the air as if she had leaped from some height and quite a distance came Ssssaaa.
The creature looped herself above on the Chancellor’s shoulder and was plainly hissing into his ear as if giving some urgent report.
Vazul was on his feet, and the Duke looked up at him startled.
“There is trouble in the tower! No.” He put out a hand to keep the Duke from grasping the small bell which would bring a quick answer. “Do you want the whole of the castle alert? I shall take the inner way as usual.”
He was gone behind the screen that half divided the room, leaving Uttobric to gnaw at his nails, his thoughts summing up every calamity which might be upon him.
10
Mahart took two stitches in the heavy linen intended to form the foundation for a new altar panel she had promised to the Abbey in honor of her being advanced there to the role of lady patroness, and then tossed the scratchy cloth onto the table. Her fingers would simply not obey orders today, and in fact her thoughts were very far from conscientious labor at the moment.
Lady Famina bobbed up from her stool. “Your Highness wishes?” she was quick to ask.
For a moment Mahart gazed at her. Yes, there was very much something she wished, but she completely doubted Famina could supply it—and that was information. Zuta had gone to order some more of the restful sleep incense and had not yet returned, and certainly neither of these ninnies was of any use. Perhaps— She frowned, not realizing that Famina might take that expression personally.
In her lifetime so far she had had precious few secrets—and most of them had been so tame as to not hold even her own interest. Zuta was the only one who had shared, beside Julta, those days in the past when she had been her father’s forgotten prisoner.
Since life had switched a full way around from quiet to taking part in the court, they had indeed traded at the rare times they were alone together opinions—most of them derogatory—about the new company into which they had been plunged. But—no, this was something she wanted to think about before she shared it even with Zuta.
“Your Grace—” faltered the Lady Famina, and Mahart realized that the lumpy child must be fearing that she had in some way offended her new mistress.
“It is nothing, Famina.” Mahart sketched a yawn. “I find it close and airless here. Shall we take a turn in the rose garden?”
Rose garden, she thought disparagingly—a stretch of ancient earth between two frowning walls with a number of straggly plants over which a gardener watched with deep concern for their continued lives. The fields—the free fields—with their wealth of flowers. And—in the last dream there had almost been another—she was certain she had seen a shadow.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Both ladies were on their feet waiting to follow her those decorous two steps behind which etiquette demanded. Thus her own idle words had sentenced her to a period in the open—if there could be any real “open” within these walls.
As she went down the stairs and through the doorway below she eyed those walls about her with a new interest. Yes, she dreamed when she slept—and now looked forward to those dreams. But when she had stirred awake last night, nudged into consciousness somehow by something she did not understand, that had not been a dream!
Though all her unordered, unsupervised reading had taught her much about the past, and she thought she knew the castle from its infancy as a traders’ command post, to her it had been a place of shelter, certainly not always comfortable.
She had always known that the walls now standing were very thick—thick enough to conceal—what? A small shiver made her pull her shawl the closer. What of the many legendary tales she had read? Not of this castle to be sure—but of others—where were secret ways through such walls.
It was because her own tower had been such a tight part of her life that she had never perhaps thought of such a thing as there being more to the walls about her than she could see and touch at her will. However—she could remember as if she had just heard them moments ago—those sounds behind a wall in her bedchamber. Not the scampering of rats or other vermin—no. Remedies supplied by the Herbmistress as well as an alert corps of cats kept them free of such pests.
But she would take Star Oath that she had heard sounds which had swept within the walls about almost one quarter of her room. They had been strong enough to bring her out of bed—night lamp in hand—to walk along the suspect barriers. Only, they had died out so quickly she could not really center in on them.
Now, standing in the rose garden, she turned slowly around, not to look at the few wizened blossoms showing but at the castle itself. The Black Tower! It was the space of the garden away from her own quarters and for years it had been so shunned that people seemed to have forgotten it.
Ghosts—? She shook her head at her own thoughts. There had been no more stories of specters these past few days. Yet she wanted nothing more than a chance to inspect that section of wall in the fullest light she could summon—have all the heavy window drapes pulled back and several lamps placed to best advantage. Only, to do so would certainly raise questions and ones for which she had no answers.
She was still staring musingly at the Black Tower when Zuta came hurrying down the path, brushing past the two ladies who scowled and pulled aside their skirts. There was certainly no bonding friendship in Mahart’s household.
“
Your Grace"—Zuta had to pause for a moment to catch breath—"His Highness’s herald has ridden forth with the invitation. ’Tis said that if Prince Lorien comes it will be within days!”
Mahart bit her lip. It was a long time since Kronengred had welcomed a conquering hero, one with all the attributes of this one—a notable feat of arms behind him, of high birth, likely looking according to rumor, and all the rest that was ever accorded a legendary prince. She also remembered word for word—scowl by scowl—exactly her father’s opinion of this event.
She, Mahart, was to make herself so desirable to this stranger that he could find himself wedded to her—ready to serve her father’s purposes. And she had not the least idea of how such a deed could be accomplished. Though she could well guess her life, if she failed, might be far from even as palely pleasant as it was now.
“Your Grace"—Zuta had drawn much closer—"there are ways—”
“Charms?” demanded Mahart dryly. “We are not caught up in some ancient tale.”
“Halwice’s compounds, Your Grace. There will be the victory ball and you are to present the circlet of the Star—Is that not the truth?”
Rumors did spread with lightning speed through this pile, Mahart knew. “Yes.”
“Then, Your Grace, send for the Herbmistress. There are arts in plenty wrought from the very hearts of flowers and that which is earth-rooted, which can aid a woman. You are not aged enough to know much of such matters, but I have seen ladies well past their bloom turned into maids new come to court—at least for an evening. You need no such creams and false enchantments—but there are other ways to make any man notice one and be led to follow.”
That, also, Mahart knew. She loved fragrance for itself and what it wrought within her—such as her beautiful dreams. However, she had never tried to use any such as a lure. But perhaps this was the time she would be driven to it.
“Can you summon this herb wife?” she asked. “I have heard that she does not go from her shop except for some great illness or disaster. Certainly she would not consider the concocting of a new fragrance to be such. I have seen her at the Abbey, and she has the air of one noble born, not to be used as a servant.”