by Andre Norton
Ssssaaa had left the bed in one of those arching leaps, one long enough to deposit her coil of body on the still-covered bench of the dressing table. She burrowed under the second wide cloth which had been draped there to completely cover the mirror and the counter below that. Willadene swung from the bed to follow and dared to pull away the covering.
There was an array of splendid bottles and jars, all fashioned as if to further display the treasured scents within. She recognized having seen the equivalent of several in the shop. In fact, it was most of those which had come to a crushed end under the boots of the intruders. The special rose bottle was not there. In a place of prominence, where such might have stood, was a flagon fashioned in the form of tight-bundled ferns.
Fern fragrance arose from it. That was aspen from the north forests, worth far more than its weight in gold pieces were its principal ingredient to be measured in some delicate set of scales. As far as Willadene was aware, Halwice had not had any of that for almost a season—since the territory from which it came was today insolently patrolled by outlaws. Perhaps now that Prince Lorien had put down the Wolf they might be given a chance to secure such a rarity again.
She carefully lifted the small bottle. It was stopper full and by the power of her nose, fresh. Turning it slowly around, the girl hunted for some identifying mark. There it was, staring at her boldly—the cipher of the High Lady Saylana. A birthday gift? Doubtless, but a very costly one & indeed and one Mahart had not seen fit to open yet. Willadene set the bottle back in the same place from which she had taken it.
Ssssaaa reared, lifting nose toward the bottle. When she hissed Willadene stared at it again. It had only the appearance of a precious and beautiful treasure; she could scent nothing about it save the fern odor. Now she was truly disturbed. She had come to believe so strongly in her talent that perhaps she had become overconfident. This might be a puzzle only such as Halwice could unravel.
Yet she dared not take it with her. It was too noticeable among the other jars and bottles and might be instantly missed. To make any explanation was to negate the plan of which she was now a part.
Reluctantly she shook her head at the flagon. It would seem that Vazul’s creature had also lost interest in it now, for the lithe black form made one of those sudden flying leaps to the floor. Though she headed toward the nearest wall she did not seem interested in that barrier itself, but rather, with another soaring leap, caught at the end of a curtain and wriggled up to the open window there.
Before Willadene could move she slipped through that window and by the time the girl managed to reach the spot and collect a footstool to stand on for a good view, Ssssaaa had completely disappeared.
Only a rustling drew Willadene’s attention to the point that she leaned far enough across the sill to see what might be below. Though she had not seen such covering on any of the other walls, outside she found here an upgrowth of vine which she recognized for a particularly hardy and thick-stemmed ivy, one which, despite winter winds, kept tassels of green here and there all year round. There were mats of dead and dried leaves also, and it was through these Ssssaaa had plowed to a point on the left, from which the creature made another spectacular leap to a jut of roof below.
Willadene had not the least chance of summoning her back. In fact, the sooner she removed her bag of simples from the wardrobes and got out of the High Lady’s bedchamber the better. That Julta or the workmen had not yet returned was as much good fortune as she could expect in one day.
With the strap of her bag over her shoulder Willadene made a quiet exit, peering through a small crack of the door before she ventured out. Since she had not been summoned by the High Lady, only told to follow Julta to her assigned quarters, she might have a breathing space there.
There had been folded coverings left on the edge of the second narrow bed of the room above, so she made it up for sleeping and then shook out and laid aside the second livery dress and underclothing Halwice had provided.
Ssssaaa undoubtedly knew the castle far better than perhaps most now living there. Willadene had a suspicion that she might go roving on missions for the Chancellor, though how could the creature communicate with Vazul?
It must have been that her abrupt departure had signified that she had learned what she had been sent to discover and was on her way with the news. Now what had they supposedly discovered? Willadene sat down on the cot and somehow the small shrine to the Star caught her eye. But instead of feeling that renewal of spirit which such sighting had always brought before, she instead was whirled back for an instant of sickening vertigo to that underpassage and the door from which the scent of evil had issued so strongly.
She had heard enough to realize that the Duke was not secure in his rule—but what force threatened him? There had been gossip in the town about the rights of the High Lady Saylana, and there was the fact that she had produced a son—though certainly Barbric in power would mean no good to Kronen.
The thick edge of the old book she had brought with her dug into her side as she leaned against her bag. Reminded of the find Ssssaaa had made, Willadene brought out of hiding the very thin old leaves. They were old, of that she was sure, but their edges were not a-crumble as had been other pages of the book; rather they seemed of some very tough skin even time could not attack.
Skin—she ran her finger across their surfaces with the utmost care. This was a far different texture from any parchment she had ever handled. She slipped along the side of the cot until she was in the full light of the window and held up into the strongest bar of that light one of the two narrow strips.
No, she had not been mistaken—not parchment! What she saw marked there was a faint veining such as might appear on a leaf. But no leaf could so withstand time!
Under this strong light she could see that the markings on it for the most part followed that veining. It was certainly no recipe, for even the most ancient of lore users followed patterns which formed symbols or words. The lines on both these pieces seemed to wriggle and scrawl, as if someone had been idly amusing him or herself with brush or pen, to no true purpose. Halwice must see these, of course, but Willadene could not seek out the Herbmistress again in so short a time without raising questions.
She made again a most careful packet of her find and was stowing it away in her bodice when Julta came in without the formality of any knock, though she must be sure Willadene was there for she said at once: “Her Grace would have you bring your wares. The High Lady Saylana is asking concerning them. Oh—there is your bag? But it was in the wardrobe—” Julta was frowning.
“Many of the bottles are easily broken. On second thought I decided it was better to my hand while workmen were busy there,” Willadene answered.
The maid nodded. “Not that those have any care for hand cream—but sometimes such are curious, to be sure. And your mistress’s wares are all known to be worth a goodly number of silver pieces. Bring them now—but—’’ She stood with her fists on her hips, confronting the girl as if daring her to deny what she was about to say.
“What you have is for Her Grace, that was the understanding. The High Lady Saylana can be most pressing when she desires something.”
“Of course what is here"—Willadene shouldered her bag—"is for Her Grace, the High Lady Mahart. It was selected with her in mind by my mistress herself.”
She need only hold to that. An apprentice obeyed first the orders of the guild member she was sworn to serve. And she hardly thought that the High Lady Saylana would go against all custom as to try to take for herself some of that Willadene carried.
Julta brought her back once more to that chamber where she had first met Mahart. But now the room seemed crowded to the extent of an audience hall. A second chair of presence flanked the one in which Mahart sat, somewhat stiff of back. Though her face was calm, her eyelids drooped a little as if she would rather not see most of the company around her. The floor was so covered with stools and the cushions for those of lower rank (crowded
even back against the wall) that Willadene thought that threading a way through this company without nudging inadvertently some lady or treading on a widespread skirt might be something of an exercise in agility.
However, it was the woman in the second chair who seemed to dominate the whole assembly, just as her brightly dressed and exquisitely turned-out ladies put Mahart’s retinue so far in the shade they almost seemed to cease to exist.
She was tall even when sitting and might, Willadene thought at her first sighting, be impressive even without the robes and jewels, the brilliance of which was shared by her ladies. Her hair was dark and braided in a coronet about her proudly held head as if it were a separate crown as, for the many jeweled pins set in it, it might well have been.
In contrast to that dark hair her face was like a well-carved mask of ivory, showing color only at the curve of I her full lips. And above her eyes her brows slanted slightly upward toward the temples, a device Willadene believed not to be nature’s own work. Her eyes themselves were almond shaped and she had made excellent use of every art to give them a suggestion of mystery.
The scent she had chosen was not obtrusive—but Willadene recognized it immediately for what it was, an insidious charm to arouse the senses. Just as her dress, which was not in itself too revealing, still made plain that no feminine curve would be missed by the beholder.
The dress was an odd shade of gray, yet on the seams and curves it seemed shot now and then with glints of dark red. A wide collar of rubies, surely more intended for the ballroom than everyday wear, was clasped about her slender throat. Age had certainly treated her well—aided, Willadene was sure, by many of the secrets her own mistress knew—so that it hardly seemed possible she had mothered that lout who had invaded the shop.
Saylana was playing with a fan, snapping it open and shut as Willadene advanced in answer to Mahart’s wave, as if she really had no interest in the apprentice, only what she brought with her. But Willadene had already caught it—not as sickeningly heavy as it had been earlier today—but rather coming faintly, like the taint she had sniffed about Jonas. It was as if each of them—High Lady and workman—had brushed against something dark and carried its stain with them.
15
Once more Willadene went through her pack, bringing out each offering to display it clearly, even as she had for Mahart. The High Lady Saylana showed the slightest hint of an amused smile, as if viewing the posturing of children in some simple play of their own devising—though Willadene heard the rustling skirts of her ladies as each product was brought forth and its virtues extolled. Saylana made no attempt to reach for any of the various potions, and her own personal musky scent was so strong that it blanked out many of the lighter, springlike fragrances Halwice had chosen for Mahart.
“Truly a fine display.” Her fan waved back and forth languidly as if she would drive the rival scents from her own vicinity. “You should quite outshine the fairest of the fair, dear child, if it all works as is promised.”
Willadene did not miss the flush on Mahart’s face. There lurked a bite beneath those words, a suggestion that no means could be used to turn the Duke’s daughter into a fabulous beauty.
“I am well pleased,” she returned quietly. “All the Herbmistress has sent me for years has been of the best; surely these also will serve their turn. As for being fairest of the fair, dear cousin, you undervalue yourself—look in any mirror and assure yourself of that.”
Saylana smiled more widely. “Child, you are so new to social wiles and strategies. One does not share the secrets of the dressing table. However, you may be well assured that His Highness will make sure that one of his blood shines. It is a pity"—she closed her fan with a snap—"that the ancient tales we heard as children hold no truth. Then one might bargain with greater powers for what we need the most when we need it.
“Girl.” Her attention passed from Mahart to Willadene. “Since you appear to be added temporarily to the service of the High Lady, be sure you give her of your best.”
Willadene hoped that no change or start had given her away to those all-seeing eyes. For with those last words, as if Saylana had somehow released it by will or unknowingly, Willadene had caught a flick of odor laid in her direction like the lash of a whip—the taint—faint, yet not to be mistaken.
“Our thanks to you, cousin.” Saylana had swung back to Mahart. “Perhaps when this present round of rejoicing is past Halwice will share some of these with others.”
She was on her feet, a signal all her ladies seemed to have been alert to catch, for they too were standing and then sinking into curtseys.
“It has been a favor on your part, my dear,” Saylana continued, “to satisfy my curiosity so, since this apprentice takes her oaths so seriously and would not afford me some moments of her time. But then she is new to this estate and does not properly understand castle manners. Anyway, may she do her best for you—”
“She will!” There was a sharp sweep as if by a blade in those words. “And I am pleased that you are pleased, Saylana, since you are well-known to be a mistress of all formal ceremony and courtly ritual.”
But Mahart stood her ground and did not usher the older woman to the door. In the castle now her standing was supreme and it was clear, Willadene was sure, that she intended to make that universally known.
When Saylana and her billowing of ladies had gone Mahart was frowning. With a wave of her hand she dismissed in turn the two of her retinue who seemed to have won little of her favor, but out of the shadows behind her chair came Zuta.
Dressed in one of her favorite shades of yellow the girl could have perhaps even matched Saylana in vibrant and obvious sensual beauty—very different from the cool and more subtle attraction of Mahart.
“Your Grace, she is angry—”
Mahart suddenly grinned like one less than half her years. “When has she not been every time she is in my company? The very sight of me is like wine turned bitter in her mouth. So"—now she looked to Willadene—"she tried to reach you since your coming here?”
Quickly Willadene spoke of the footman. But she did not add that she believed he had spied upon her until she had indeed reached the Lord Chancellor’s suite.
Mahart nodded. “So straightway she came hither. Apprentice, what has she to fear among your potions and fragrances?”
“Your Grace, I cannot tell you—if she does fear. For all I have brought with me was of Halwice’s own compounding and she does not deal in things of the Dark.”
“Saylana is a great beauty,” the Lady Zuta cut in. “She scorns you as far less so than herself, Your Grace.”
Mahart grinned again. “When one fights one does not always use the tactics and weapons already known to one’s , enemy. I know full well that the High Lady has every intention of enticing the interest of the Prince. And she has the outward appearance to do so—”
Zuta looked puzzled. “But—”
“Listen here.” Mahart seemed to have forgotten Willadene’s presence as she began to talk swiftly, as if in fear she might be interrupted before she reached the major points of what she would say.
“The Lord Chancellor has an expert corps of eyes and ears, and at least one of them has spent useful hours at King Hawkner’s court. This Prince Lorien is not a womanizer. Oh, he has been in a strange bed or two upon occasion after the way of his sex—but he holds apart from the revels of the court.
“His interest is the training field, or with the hunts, or even trying feats of daring such as climbing Mount Grog, as he did two years past, standing where no man in history had set foot before. He has tamed tree cats and holds one with him at times, even as Vazul holds that Ssssaaa of his. Also he has sent a farhawk aloft in hunting. Most wolf packs he has run down in the north forests so that borderers no longer fear their slinking.
“What makes his heart beat the quicker is a newly forged blade, a fine mount from his private stud. To such a man a woman is a convenience—or sometimes a nuisance. However, there is one
way his interests can be caught even by a woman who cannot compete with horse, hound, and sword. It is said that he is one who listens to the bards—especially tales of lost treasure, of strange monsters, and the like. Those carrying such tales are welcome within his hall and questioned most straightly concerning the source of their ballads.”
Zuta now appeared completely bewildered. “But why?”
Mahart laughed openly. “Because, I think, in his way he is a dreamer, not one who plucks ripe fruit ready to drop into his outstretched hand, but rather one willing to climb to the frail top branches of the tree for that which remains out of reach. Therefore—to give him what he wishes much—a dream—something so founded in fable that it is well-known but still a dream past present redemption.”
“Heart-Hold!” Willadene said without thinking. Mahart looked at her in surprise. Then the High Lady nodded emphatically. “Heart-Hold.”
“But I do not see how that old tale will serve your purpose, Your Grace,” protested Zuta.
“Nor am I quite sure how it will—just yet. But we shall see what we shall see, when the time comes.”
Time did move, whether to their purpose or its own Willadene could not guess. She had no message from either Halwice or the Lord Chancellor, but she was sure that Ssssaaa had made a safe return and reported after her own fashion. In the meantime she was busied for several hours each day, along with the head seamstress of the castle and the master goldsmith, Mahart serving as final judge of their labors—though Willadene became very aware that the High Lady disliked overelaborate robes and most of the masses of jewels which were urged on her. The high point of all their efforts was to be, of course, her dress for the victory ball where she was to graciously crown Lorien with the victor’s circlet of the Star and, if fate were willing, at the same time to center his attention, even if fleeting, for the moment on herself.