by Andre Norton
"Daughter!" he said. And then repeated it. "Daughter. Welcome, my daughter."
"There is no daughter," Ysa said fiercely. She held up her hands. "By the power of the Rings, I swear it!" Then, to her horror, her hands trembled and fell; the
Rings had suddenly become too weighty for her to bear. If what she suspected—but dare not let herself admit—was true, there was no time to lose. What the court did not witness could be denied. "Royance, clear the room. What follows must be private." She turned to try to hush the King, who still strove to speak past the gurgling death-rattle in his throat.
"Let me be!" he said more firmly than he had spoken for days. "Blood calls to blood, and there stands blood of mine—a daughter." With enormous tenderness and sweetness, he smiled at the girl.
A waft of her perfume drifted toward Ysa. She recognized it at once. The King turned his head, addressing a presence no one else in the room could see. "I understand now, Alditha, my own beloved. My daughter—" He gave a great sigh, his eyelids drooped, and he fell back against his pillows with a finality that only death could bring.
Ysa stared at him aghast, and then turned to look at the girl whom Boroth had identified as being of his blood. The crowd of courtiers had stepped back, leaving Ashen standing alone in a pool of light, her hands clasped in front of her, looking appalled at what had just transpired, and more than a little repelled by the ruined hulk who had just claimed her as daughter. She wore the
Ash color—blue—such as had not been seen at court for sixteen years. No wonder
Ysa had not known her for who she was; this one was of no Bog mixed-breeding, such as the ill-formed creature she had pictured in her mind! Around her neck was a necklace bearing the badge of the House of Ash, a badge that Ysa had thought never to see again. "Who—" was all that the Queen could manage to say.
"I am Ashen," the woman—actually, little more than a girl—replied, her voice shaking.
And the daughter of Alditha and Boroth was recognized at last by the Queen as she stared into the face that joined the features of her bitterest rival with those of her husband, who lay dead between them.
There was a movement among the hangers-on in the chamber, the merest hint of factions forming as she watched. Florian's lickspittles stayed close by him, naturally, but others wavered, about to make a half-step that would indicate their willingness to accept even a bastard daughter over the Prince.
As the scales finally fell from her eyes, Ysa began thinking clearly and rapidly. With Royance's cryptic words, he had given Ysa a choice, knowing how heartily she detested the Prince. Both she and Florian had enemies who would gladly begin pushing for Ashen's succession, just to rid themselves of the Queen and her son, using Ashen's double strain of royal blood as an excuse. They wouldn't care that Ashen could have no idea of how to rule the country. No, that would suit them very well, because in such a case, they would be able to seize the power that was always set loose when a dynasty fell— except for that still held by Ysa and the might of the Council, for whom this bastard offspring would be merely a figurehead. Ysa would, of course, continue as the real power behind the throne. It was a tempting possibility.
At one time, she herself had actually considered removing Florian as unfit. But to step aside for the child of her rival, and have Yew blood taken out of the succession entirely? No! She was the wife, now widow, of a King, and as poor timber for the position as Florian undoubtedly was, she would see to it that her son had the throne.
Without hesitation, she ended all by turning to Florian, dumbstruck for once in his life. She held out both hands so that the Rings were plain for all to see.
"The King is dead," she proclaimed, her voice wavering despite her best efforts.
"Long live the King!"
The End