by Andre Norton
“I caught Ashen as she was being born,” Zazar replied. “I will tend her even if she—”
“Do not say it, lest it come true.”
Zazar nodded, acknowledging the doctor’s words. No sense in summoning the dark-robed shadows that took someone’s life away by mentioning them aloud.
“She is sleeping peacefully now,” she told Birger, “and there is no task presently for my hands and Ashen’s ladies will look after her. I want to go up to my chamber in the northeast tower where I might find something among my collection of herbs and other remedies that might be of use. If anything changes before I return, send for me.”
“I will,” Birger said, bowing. “May your search be fruitful.”
It took only a few minutes to gather healing herbs and elixirs. The real reason Zazar wanted to get to her tower was that there she was not apt to be interrupted, particularly by Ysa, in what she was proposing to do.
The silver basin sat on her worktable, as she had directed. Beside it, stood the ewers she had confiscated from Ashen’s table goods—it seemed like years ago—still filled with clean water from the Rock-Maidens’ waterfall.
Carefully, she poured water into the basin and, relying on her memory, began to intone the syllables of the ritual Ysa had employed so many times. At worst, the experiment would fail and Zazar would be unsuccessful; at best, she would be able to duplicate what Ysa obviously thought her area alone.
Unexpectedly, in midword, Zazar experienced a draining away of her strength. She tottered and would have fallen except that Weyse appeared out of nowhere and laid her clever paws on Zazar’s arm.
New strength flowed into her from the source that had been tapped into by the benevolent summat, and she resumed her recitation. As before, when Ysa had been in command, a mist began to form above the water.
Zazar had not believed Gunnora’s assertion that she knew each time the Ritual of Seeing was invoked. Only Petra had so claimed, and her reaction when she happened to be with Mikkel, as the three women observed him, gave proof. No such reaction from Gunnora. Therefore, she was certain the woman was bluffing. And even if she were not, the possibility of learning more about this person made the risk worth taking.
“Gunnora,” she said.
The mist immediately formed, revealing an interesting tableau. The woman Zazar had last seen riding an Ice Dragon was coming from a cavern, its blackness plain against the snow. She wore a tunic with a hood rimmed with wolvine fur, and showed no sign of being aware that she was being observed. While the Wysen-wyf watched, she mounted a sled without dogs to pull it. Instead, she kicked the sled’s side, and it sputtered into life.
That is an ice sleigh, Zazar thought. Askepott told me of such, and how she escaped Holger’s steading on one. But where is she going, and where has she come from? There were no answers, yet.
She spoke aloud. “Petra.”
The image shifted. The Rock-Maiden Princess was on the deck of the Snow Gem. With a nod of her head she acknowledged Zazar’s spell-making, and hurried to her cabin so that they could converse in private.
“I have seen Gunnora,” Zazar told her. “I don’t think she was aware of me. She was busy.” Quickly, she told Petra of what she had seen.
“I do not know where she might have been,” Petra said. “But she would occasionally leave the holding for a day or two and then, without a word of explanation, return once more. A cavern mouth, you say?”
“It looked like it.”
“I will see what I can learn.”
“Thank you.”
The image winked out. Zazar sat staring at the silver basin for several minutes, frowning with thought. Then an idea took her. She filled the basin with water again, and, with Weyse supplying energy from whatever mystical source the little creature had access to, repeated the ritual.
“Now let us see if my idea has any degree of soundness,” Zazar muttered to herself. “Flavielle.”
The image cleared at once; Zazar was peering into a chamber of ice. More than that. To her astonishment, Zazar found herself gazing at the body of the Sorceress, clad in a thin, snow-white dress. Her limbs were composed—but what magic had allowed her to have remained unchanged during the years since her death?
The woman lay on an icy bier beneath a dome of the clearest crystal. Occasional sparks glinted, like fireflies. If Zazar had not known better, she looked as if she would awaken at a touch.
The floor, also of ice, bore marks indicating that someone living had recently been in this . . . this tomb, for such it surely must be.
Gunnora has been here, Zazar realized. But for what purpose?
The body of a man, dried to a husk by the cold and lacking the crystal protective dome, lay close by. Despite the sunken cheeks and leathery skin, Zazar recognized him. Farod, the Dragon Rider. Her stomach lurched as she realized the man’s head had been cut off, and then sewn back on with large, clumsy stitches.
She remembered Farod well. She, Ysa, and Ashen had stood atop a promontory, invoking such force as they might, while an Ice Dragon floated down, bearing Farod and his master, the Great Foulness.
Summoned by the iridescent bracelet Ashen wore, Gaurin had come rushing into danger and he and Farod had fought hand to hand on the plain at the base of the promontory while the Great Foulness watched, amused, from atop a pillar of ice he had caused to arise.
His amusement turned to anger when Gaurin killed Farod, running him through, and he himself was vanquished by a magical flame brought forth by the three women.
“But obviously his lieutenant, Farod, didn’t die,” Zazar murmured. “Not then, at any rate. He found his way back here, back to Flavielle his lover. Back to their child, I surmise. At least, that will do until a better theory comes along.”
The image vanished, leaving Zazar bone-weary. She dragged herself up from the table and, trembling in all her limbs, found the bottle of brandewijn and poured herself a generous dose. It had the welcome effect of strengthening her rather than muddling her senses.
She quickly scrambled the jars and bottles she had selected earlier into a carry-sack. Almost as an afterthought, she picked up the bottle of brandewijn and added it to the collection. Then she returned down the stairs to the chambers where Gaurin and Ashen lay.
When she arrived, she learned that Tordenskjold had returned.
“He was in a marvelous foul humor,” Lady Esmiralda, one of Ashen’s ladies, told her. “But that vanished quickly when he discovered how things stood with Their Majesties.”
“I take it that he was not successful against Holger den Forferdelig.”
“He was forced to run. Holger put three ships against him.”
“No wonder his temper was foul,” Zazar commented. “Well, he’ll recover and fight Holger another day. Now, how is Ashen?”
“I think she might rouse before long.”
“Then I must be with her.” A sudden suspicion hit Zazar. “Where is the Duchess Ysa?”
“I think she has confined herself to her apartment with her little dog. She said she would be no help here in the sickroom, and didn’t want to be a hindrance.”
A likely tale. Zazar started to go in to Ashen. “Madame—”
“What is it? Is it Gaurin?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“He is worse?”
“His breathing, Madame. It is loud, and labored.”
A bad sign. Torn between going to Ashen and seeing if there was anything at all she could do for Gaurin, Zazar chose the latter. At least Ashen hadn’t had her head bashed in by a rock thrown by a witless oaf.
It was as Esmiralda had said. Gaurin drew breath with the greatest of efforts, and the sound of it filled the chamber. Birger hovered over the NordornKing and looked up as Zazar approached. A wordless communication passed between them; Gaurin was dying.
“I will send messengers to gather family and nobility,” Birger told her. “It is time.”
“Yes.”
Zazar took his place by Gaurin’s bedside. “Esmiralda,” s
he said. “Lady Esmiralda, I mean.”
The lady-in-waiting appeared at Zazar’s summons. “I am here, Madame.”
“If Ashen can summon the least bit of consciousness, she must be here as well when the NordornKing breathes his last,” Zazar told her. “Support her, carry her in a chair, if need be.”
“It will be done, Madame.”
The Nordorn Court must have been assembled outside, awaiting the news, and they now filed into the room. Even Ysa ventured out of the safety of her apartment and joined those standing about the death chamber.
Ashen, propped up in the chair in which she had been carried, seemed not entirely aware of what was transpiring. “I am so tired,” she whispered to Zazar. “I gathered a ball of Power. I had done it before. It drained me.”
“Yes, I know,” Zazar said soothingly. She took the bottle of brandewijn, opened it, and poured a dose into a cup one of Ashen’s ladies handed her. “Drink this,” she urged, holding the cup to Ashen’s lips.
Though she coughed when she swallowed the dose, a little color returned to Ashen’s cheeks. She gazed somberly at her husband. “He is dying, isn’t he.”
“Yes, I fear so.”
“He fell in battle,” Ashen said. “And so inform them all.”
Svarteper was standing nearby. “It is the proper way for a warrior to die, Madame,” he said. “The only way for one such as Gaurin NordornKing.” He glanced at Zazar and motioned for her to move aside a pace.
“Her Majesty seems to be dazed,” he whispered. “She doesn’t appear to know what is happening. Have you, well, have you given her something to dull her senses?”
“Only a tot of brandewijn just now,” Zazar whispered in return. “It seemed to strengthen her.”
Svarteper shook his head sadly. “Then it is graver than I suspected. I have seen such before, in soldiers who were mortally wounded. They could watch their closest friend die with no more outward emotion than she is showing now.”
“But she was untouched in the incident at Åskar Village.”
Cebastian had joined them. “I saw—Well, I saw something.”
“She did mention a ball of Power. I thought her mind was wandering.”
“Not so, Madame. I witnessed it myself. It formed in response to her summons. Then she hurled it with all her might, and I saw what it did to the man who brought the NordornKing down.”
Zazar could no longer deny the obvious. Ashen, too, is dying, she thought. Her heart sank at the thought. “She has given the last of her life force on behalf of the man she has loved ever since the first moment she saw him,” she said aloud.
“And he her, Madame,” Svarteper said. “It is a story the poets make songs of.”
“Put her on the bed beside him,” Zazar ordered. “Do not make her spend the few sparks that remain in her, trying to sit upright. In life they were not separated save at great need, and they shall not be separated now.”
Ayfare sprang forward, ahead of Ashen’s ladies, and quickly obeyed. Tenderly, the Chatelaine laid Ashen by Gaurin’s side. She touched him, and it seemed to Zazar that for a moment he breathed easier.
If anyone took hope from this, that hope vanished almost immediately. While the people crowded into the bedchamber wept loudly or softly according to their natures, Gaurin NordornKing took a last breath, released it, and breathed no more. Ashen NordornQueen smiled on him, lifted her hand, and touched his lips. Then she, too, closed her eyes and her breathing ceased.
Twenty-seven
The people of the NordornLand and particularly of Cyornasberg went into deep, shocked mourning for their lost King and Queen. Black banners flew from every tower, and it seemed that every doorway was hung with black crepe.
Reality dictated that the funerals be held before the new NordornKing could be crowned. Early on the chosen day Zazar and Ayfare, followed by Nalren, Gaurin’s gentlemen, and Ashen’s ladies, proceeded to the room where the late NordornKing and NordornQueen lay on two biers, passing guards who saluted as they approached. Only the women went in. Until the bodies had been washed and dressed at least partially, the men would remain outside.
The room was cold, kept so with blocks of ice laid around the walls. The women’s breath puffed out white and frosty.
For the last time, Ayfare washed Ashen’s hair, while Zazar and Lady Ragna performed that service for Gaurin. They removed the bandage that still covered his head and carefully sponged away all the blood that matted the area behind his ear. Then they dried it and combed it out neatly to hide the depressed spot in his skull. When they had finished, Gaurin’s hair lay loose and clean, lightly curling. Ayfare began braiding Ashen’s silvery locks.
“No one could ever arrange my lady’s hair like I could,” Ayfare said, her voice breaking.
“She was always beautiful, and you made her more so,” Zazar told her. She glanced at Ashen’s ladies, several of whom were practically useless with weeping. “Here, you women. Compose yourselves. We must array them in their finest. Go and fetch the appropriate clothing.”
“We would have brought it, but we did not know what to choose,” Lady Frida said, wiping her nose.
“That would be the white snow-thistle silk, their best,” Ayfare said. “These are the ones Their Majesties wore last at the welcome feast when the Duchess Ysa returned to Cyornasberg.”
“Yes,” Lady Frida said. “I know the ones. Esmiralda, Karina, come with me. And you, too, Amanda.”
Presently the ladies returned with the required garments. Yes, Zazar thought, these will do, to send them bravely off into the world beyond. The clothing was very rich. The finest embroiderers had worked the Ash badge on Ashen’s skirt and the silver-collared silver snowcat on Gaurin’s doublet. Embroidered silver snowflakes glittered on dress and doublet.
“Call Nalren once we have dressed the NordornQueen so she is not exposed,” Zazar told Lady Karina.
“Aye, Madame Zazar. I know he would feel slighted if he were not allowed to do this last service for his lord.”
“And bring jewels.”
“The State necklaces,” Lady Frida said.
“And their crowns,” added Lady Amanda.
“No, not the crowns,” Ayfare said. “They wore tiaras when the occasion demanded. Who knows where they are kept?”
“I do,” said Lady Frida. She left the room where the monarchs’ bodies had been laid to go and fetch them.
Good, Zazar thought. Give them tasks to do, keep them busy, and they will not be so prone to fall into useless tears. That goes for me also, she added honestly.
When Ashen’s dress had been put on her, Nalren entered the room with a box of cosmetics tucked under his arm. He set the box on a table and Ayfare opened it to extract what she needed. While the ladies and Zazar watched, they began applying creams and tinted lotions, and a dusting of rouge. Under their skillful hands, the waxy look of death receded until Ashen and Gaurin appeared to be merely sleeping.
Then Gaurin’s gentlemen joined those who were preparing the monarchs for their last journey. Gently, the men lifted the bodies while the ladies slipped fur-lined crimson sleeveless coats on them, and fastened crimson mantles about their shoulders. Then, as finishing touches, they placed the State necklaces around their necks, and settled the tiaras in place on their heads.
Zazar took a deep breath. Now came perhaps the hardest part. “Nalren, please go and inform—inform them.”
“Yes, Madame Zazar,” the Seneschal said. He bowed and left the room.
Presently, the nobility of the NordornLand filed into the room. Einaar of Åsåfin and the NordornLand, Baron of Asbjørg, led them, closely followed by Earl Royance of Grattenbor and of Åskar. Then came Count Tordenskjold of Grynet, Count Mjødulf of Mithlond, Count Svarteper of Råttnos, Baron Arngrim of Rimfaxe, Baron Håkon of Erlend, and Baron Gangerolf of Guttorm. Only Baldrian the Fair, Count of Westerblad, was absent, still on duty in Åskar where the uprising had begun.
The eight men lifted the biers to carry them on their sh
oulders to the inner ward and the Fane where Esander the Good would conduct the funeral service. As Gaurin NordornKing’s half-brother, Einaar claimed the spot of honor, at Gaurin’s right shoulder. Likewise, as a lifelong friend, champion and ally, Royance took that position with Ashen’s bier. The monarchs’ ladies and gentlemen followed, giving place to wives and children as the cortege passed through the Castle of Fire and Ice.
Wives and children of the nobles, castle staff, townspeople, tradesmen, crowded in to the castle grounds, filling every spare space, as if drinking in all the memories they could.
The monarchs’ ending had been swift, allowing no time to send word for representatives of the NordornLand’s allies to come. Even Hegrin, perforce, must miss the laying to rest of her father and mother. Bjaudin, NordornPrince and soon to be crowned NordornKing, stood stony-faced throughout his parents’ funeral. He would not look at his sister Elin, who stood with the Duchess Ysa, both weeping copiously.
Perhaps, thought Zazar from her spot far to the back of the nobility, he had heard a bit of the quarrel these two had had upon Elin’s arrival back in Cyornasberg.
“You killed them!” Elin cried, her voice so choked with tears that it was scarcely audible.
“Hush, child! I did no such thing.”
“You told me yourself. You started rumors about how Mother and Father were hoarding wealth, and how the people were being oppressed. You stirred up trouble between Prince Karl of Writham and Duke Bernhard of Yuland in hopes that they would go to war with one another.” Her voice grew stronger. “You are responsible for the outbreak of rioting, and just look what happened. They are dead, and you are responsible. You killed them.”
“Now see here, you little upstart,” Ysa said, pulling herself up to her full, formidable height. “It was mischief only, meant only to amuse, and you were a willing participant in it.”
“I never thought anything like this would happen.”
“Nobody did. You were in it fully as deeply as I, and share the blame. But it can’t be helped now. All that we can do is salvage what we can from the tragedy.”