To The King A Daughter

by Andre Norton

  Boroth's suite, at the opposite wing of the castle.

  The usual complement of hangers-on, vultures watching to mark the exact moment when the King would die, the physicians and the servants, filled the chamber.

  They had begun almost to live there, Ysa noted, having their meals brought to them so they would not miss a moment of what was happening to the King of

  Rendel. Master Lorgan glanced up, and his face lit in a smile.

  "You have proved yourself a better healer than I," he said. His voice held a note of what seemed to be genuine pleasure. "But I am sure that our sovereign lord has missed your presence. Please, come and gladden his spirits as your appearance gladdens ours."

  With a bow, the physician indicated the bed where Bor-oth lay, his eyes closed.

  He had on a fresh nightgown, and a basin of water sat on a table nearby, indicating that the King had been newly bathed and tended. He seemed almost in a coma, and his breaths came thickly.

  "The King sleeps?" Ysa asked.

  "He rests. I think the number of people in his chamber wearies him."

  "Then send them away," she said, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard. She glanced around imperiously. "Know you not that you burden the King with your presence?"

  Reluctantly, the company began to depart. When all were on their way toward the door and only Master Lor-gan, his chief assistant, and the King's body- servants remained, she approached the dais on which the great bed stood. She bent over

  Boroth and as she did, a cloud of perfume enveloped them both.

  He opened his eyes and gazed at her unseeingly. Then his loose lips curved upward in a faint smile. He took a deep, clear breath and spoke. "Alditha.

  Alditha, my love. You have returned to me again. I have missed you."

  Shocked beyond measure, Ysa recoiled. With an enormous effort, she regained command over herself. Distasteful as it was, Boroth's current confusion might lead him to reveal important and useful information if she were adroit. That his thoughts were muddled was only to be expected, considering his physical condition. But what had caused him to confuse her, his lawful Queen, with that hateful Ash whore? What was different this time from many times before? Then all at once she understood. The perfume. It must have been her scent. Of course.

  Aldyce flowers were blue, the Ash color. And Boroth had given it to her, to Ysa, perhaps to remind him in the night…

  She resisted an impulse to snatch the sponge from the basin and scrub the hateful stench from her skin.

  She made herself approach the bedside again, and even to speak to him in a low, sweet voice. "Yes, it is I, your beloved," she told Boroth. She leaned over to kiss his forehead, making sure that he breathed the scent of the perfume again.

  "It has been a long time since you were with me. Why were you gone so long?" he asked.

  "I am returned. Have you—have you any message for me?"

  "Only that I love you. And will forever. Oh, if I had but met you first—"

  "And?" Ysa prompted. The word almost stuck in her throat. There had been more between them, Boroth and Alditha, than a mere tumble in the bed for Boroth's swinish pleasure. She pushed the thought aside. Later, she would think of it.

  "Yes?"

  "How different all would be. But I tried to protect you. You know that, don't you."

  "Of course. I fled your jealous wrath—"

  "Never!" He roused himself a little. "You went pursued, yes, but not by me. Have you forgotten?" Then he opened his eyes wider, and a certain focus seemed to come into them. He stared at her, recognizing her at last. "Ysa," he said, with a world of bitterness laced into the word.

  "Yes, it is I, Ysa, your Queen," she returned with equal bitterness. "And by law, your rightful wife. Your beloved, and not that harlot you coupled with, almost in my face."

  Boroth did not answer, but merely closed his eyes and turned his head on the pillow.

  Biting down her impulse to leave him as she found him, Ysa nevertheless summoned the will to perform the ritual of the Rings. Then she all but fled the room, her fatigue and illness forgotten in her rush to return to her chambers and destroy every drop of the hated scent that had brought Boroth out of his stupor.

  How they had managed to make it back to the ruins on the island, Ashen could not have told. Partly, she put it down to the mysterious Outlanders' choice of another path, heading north, which allowed her to lead her charge more quickly to the place she had come to think of as a refuge. It was well past midday by the time the two of them stumbled into the chambers. The fire had gone out, and it was dank and cheerless within.

  She settled him onto a pile of reed mats. Then she found more of the black stones, lit a fire, and when she was certain it was taking the worst of the chill from the air, began to loosen his clothing. Surely the woven metal shirt must be uncomfortable to lie upon. She got it off by unbuckling the belt and easing the garment out from under him. Then she folded it and laid it aside together with his long knife. Quickly she splinted the broken arm.

  His boots were another matter. There must be some trick to removing them, and she did not know it. Reluctantly, she had to leave them on him, knowing that his feet were likely to be numb in the morning. To her delight, Weyse came out of the shadows. The little creature had obviously been waiting for her here in the refuse and now hovered nearby, sitting on her haunches and rubbing her paws together. Then she came closer and began sniffing at the man's head wound.

  "Let me clean it properly," Ashen told her.

  She began rummaging through the pack, drawing out packets of herbs. Then she gathered some water in a pot, added a pinch of this and a palmful of that to the water, and set it on to heat. When the mixture had steeped long enough, Ashen dipped a cloth in it and began to wipe away the blood that matted the

  Outlander's reddish-gold hair. To her relief, she found that the wound itself was not deep—head wounds, she reminded herself, always bled freely—though there was a lump on the man's forehead the size of a vorse egg. Almost before she had finished, Weyse waddled up to squat beside the man and examine the lump with her paws. Her touch was so gentle that he didn't even moan, though he had protested feebly while Ashen was cleaning the cut.

  "I do think he will be all right," she told Weyse. She wrapped a strip of clean cloth around the man's head. Then she emptied the pot of the herbal mixture and filled it again with water, preparatory to brewing a strengthening broth. When it was done, she gave it to the man and he drank it, after which he fell into a deep sleep.

  Tired from her exertions and the strain of trying to avoid the other Outlanders,

  Ashen lay down upon another pile of mats. Perhaps she could sleep for an hour.

  She was too tired to eat, though she did give Weyse some of the trail mixture the little creature loved. Ashen held out her arms, hoping Weyse would come and warm her as she had done before, but Weyse appeared determined to hover near the

  Outlander.

  "Very well," Ashen murmured sleepily. "You tend him now, and I'll take care of him presently." Then she pulled a reed covering over herself and fell asleep.

  She awoke abruptly to the sound of a man's voice, raised in what was surely anger.

  It was the Outlander, fighting free of the reed mats that he had obviously disturbed in a restless sleep. He tore the bandage loose from his head, stared at it, and flung it away. He pointed his finger at Ashen and shouted something at her. She could understand perhaps one word in three, but grasped that he held her responsible for his injury.

  "No, no, it was not I!" she said. She scrambled up from her own mats and started toward him. "You fell—"

  But he was already dashing toward the door and into the deep twilight as fast as he could go. By his gait, she knew that true to her prediction, his feet were numb and without feeling. She followed and caught up with him just in time to see him climb up onto the top of a ruined wall.

  He took a step forward. One of the stones shifted, and to Ashen's horror, he fe
ll. She heard a dull thunk! as his head hit another stone.

  Certain that this time he had killed himself, she ran to him. "He still breadies," she said, as much to herself as to Weyse, who had bounded after her.

  Necessity lent her strength. Somehow she managed to drag him back to the sheltered room again. There she stirred up the fire and examined the wound on his head. The herbal mixture had started the healing well, and by chance, he had not re-opened the cut when he fell. Also, the splint was intact. But there was another, even larger, lump on the side of his head where he had struck it on the rock. His lips were bluish and his breathing slightly labored.

  If only Zazar were here, Ashen thought. She would know what to do.

  She tended the man as best she could until far into the night. Then, despairing and certain that he was in danger of dying before morning, she decided on a risky action. If Zazar would not come to her, then she would go to Zazar.

  For the first time in her life, Ashen deliberately chose to invoke magic. Using ingredients at hand and others she identified by smell from various jars on the shelves, she stirred together a mixture such as she had seen Zazar use on rare occasions and dissolved it in water from the pipe. Then, hoping she had done it right, she drank the potion.

  The room around her dissolved and when she could see again, it was by the light of a pillar of fire, in which stood Zazar.

  "Zazar!" Ashen exclaimed, astonished. How could this be? Zazar seemed unable to move. She should have been writhing in agony from the flames, yet she appeared only a little exasperated.

  "I should have known it would take both of you," Zazar said. Only then did Ashen notice that another woman was with them, a woman dressed in the most beautiful, lustrous clothing she had ever beheld. Ashen could only stare in wonderment.

  "Well, come on then." Zazar held out one hand to her and the other to the beautiful stranger.

  The girl took it without hesitation and after a moment, the woman took the other. Then Zazar stepped out of the fire and it died behind her.

  "I suppose you should know each other's name, since you are going to meet in the outside world sooner or later. Ysa, this is Ashen. Ashen, this is Ysa."

  Before Ashen could tell Zazar of her need, and of the reason for her trying to contact the Wysen-wyf, she was back in the ruined house on the island.

  To her astonishment, the man had awakened and was now trying feebly to sit up.

  She rushed to him. "No, you mustn't. It's too soon."

  He looked at her clear-eyed. Though it had undoubtedly brought him close to the edge of death, the second blow to the head seemed to have had the effect of restoring his senses. Then he spoke, and again Ashen could understand enough of his words to know his meaning. "Did you hit me?" he asked. Gingerly he touched the rapidly healing cut on his forehead and the big lump on the side of his head.

  She laughed, surprised that she could. "No. I saved you." With the use of pantomime and by repeating words over and over until he understood them, she got him to understand the circumstances of his fall over the cliff.

  "Ah. The birds' attack. Yes, I remember now. I thought I was dead."

  "You nearly finished the job on yourself when you fell again, just a little while ago."

  "I didn't know where I was. And you were just sitting there, unmoving."

  "Yes." Ashen decided not to try to explain these circumstances to him. Later, perhaps. "I am Ashen," she said, pointing to herself. She looked around, hoping to find Weyse, but the little creature had disappeared.

  "Obern," the man said, likewise indicating himself. "Do you live here?"

  It seemed simpler to agree than to explain the circumstances that had brought her to this place. "Yes."

  "I am from the Sea-Rovers. I must go home, for my father must think me dead by now."

  She had no idea of where his "home" was. They sat there for a moment, Ashen feeling a little foolish and wondering what to do next.

  That question was answered by a commotion from outside. She looked up and saw a flickering light on the door-curtain. "Wait here," she said to Obern. She followed the words with a gesture, in case he did not understand. He nodded.

  Cautiously, she went to the doorway and pulled the curtain back a little. The light still shone, but it seemed far away. Still wary, Ashen stepped just outside and looked from side to side. When she saw nothing, she took another step.

  With a rustling noise, something fell over her head and the sheer weight of it bore her to the ground. She recognized a net, but one much heavier than any the

  Bog-folk could make. Still, she fought to get free of it. Two men came forward and whipped ropes around her, binding her firmly.

  Then someone walked into her area of vision. "Caught you at last, Bog- sprite," the man said. His face was hidden by mist but even if it had not been, she would have recognized him as the one whose face she could not see, back at that dreadful place where Kazi had died. "You, Raise, see if anybody is inside."

  "No, there is nobody there!" Ashen cried. But they entered the room anyway, and presently they returned with Obern, bound as she was. Then their captors carried them to the familiar landing place, where a raft awaited. The men tossed both onto the raft, which they began to pole away from the island.

  Twenty

  The Lady Marcala felt pleased with herself. Not only had her ruse fooled everyone at the court in Rendel-sham, but also Harous now seemed to be completely enthralled with her. And there was no doubt about it; Harous was the most attractive, most desirable noble at court. She had been staying in his residence in the city, and was now seriously considering his offer to be his guest at Cragden Keep. There was, she knew, nothing the least bit improper about such an invitation; after all, Marcala was his distant kinswoman. Such arrangements were commonplace among kindred.

  Of course, if their relationship should wax and grow warmer, there was nothing to prevent them from evading the servants' eyes and discovering, privately, where such tender feelings might lead. That kind of arrangement, as well, was commonplace.

  And also, she thought, she would be fulfilling her obligation to the Queen. That one was walking danger. It always paid to be on her safe side. Therefore, with such good reasons in favor and none in opposition, Marcala decided she would accept Harous's kind offer. The Queen would want to know.

  On her way to Ysa's chambers, to Marcala's displeasure, she encountered Prince

  Florian. At least he didn't seem quite as drunk as he usually was. This, however, had no beneficial effect on his manners, she noted.

  "Well, lovely lady." He stepped in front of her, putting an arm out and barring her passage. "What are you up to this fine day?"

  "Nothing, Your Highness," she said. "I was just on my way to see your mother,

  Her Majesty the Queen."

  "And did she send for you then?"

  Marcala didn't answer.

  "Perhaps you would prefer to spend an hour in my company instead?"

  "My preferences are of no consequence, Your Highness," she answered. "Now, please let me pass. Her Majesty will be expecting me."

  "Your preferences do not matter, but mine do. What would you say if I told you I prefer that you walk with me? Or that you go riding with me?" He licked his loose lips. "Ah, there's a turn of phrase. What a ride I could show you—"

  "Please, Highness! You forget yourself!"

  "Don't play the innocent virgin with me, Marcala of Valvager. Your somewhat soiled reputation precedes you. I daresay that even you could learn a trick or two from me, though, if only you'd—"

  Marcala saw her opportunity and ducked under the Prince's restraining arm. "The

  Queen… my duty…" she said, already running toward the safety of the Queen's door.

  "Well then, give my Lady Mother a message for me," he called after her. "Tell her that I'll have her barred from my father's bedchamber! Everyone at court knows that she's the one keeping him alive—"

  But Marcala swiftly closed the door, shutting out
Prince Florian's words. She leaned against the portal, eyes closed, gathering her composure.

  "Come in, Marcala," the Queen said. "I take it you have just come from my son's company."

  "I have," Marcala said wryly.

  "Then busy yourself in here, with me. I am given to understand that you and

  Count Harous have become the best of friends."