Scent of Magic Read online

  “Just so. However"—the Chancellor continued to stroke his pet—"I did not mean make free with the heart of the matter, merely speak to her of marriage. Who knows such a rumor might bring the Lady Saylana's attention and push her supporters out of their holes to your advantage.”

  The Duke chewed a fingernail; his glance swept from the Chancellor to those piles of reports. Yes, if they could just stir the pot a little some useful steam might arise.

  “Well enough,” he said. “That much can certainly be done. Summon Burris—one might as well get to the thing.”

  The Chancellor arose and went to pull the bell rope which would bring the Duke's personal servant. He neither smiled nor displayed any change in feature. It was becoming very easy to bring Uttobric to his way of thinking—-but overconfidence was a sin.

  The great bell's boom broke into the most pleasant of dreams. Mahart had never seen the world outside these ancient walls since she was a very small girl, but tonight she had skimmed away from her tower to a place she barely remembered when awake-—a great open field in which brilliant gems of flowers bent under a breeze which carried the scent of summer itself.

  The scent of summer—her brows drew together in a faint frown of one seeking a memory. Of course! Now she squirmed free of the tangle of silk and velvet and sat up. Her attention was on the small brazier which sat on the edge of her wide dressing table. No fragrant smoke threads arose upward from it now, but, as she stretched her arms wide, she felt she could purr like one of the guard cats who kept the castle free of vermin.

  She was indeed a Herbmistress—that Halwice—to produce an incense which supplied such peaceful and comforting dreams. They said she was a mistress of scents so powerful that they could draw or repel another. Mahart's dissatisfied gaze went on to the array of fancifully fashioned bottles on that same dressing table. Many of those held rare fragrances from overseas—her father was very apt on Winter Turn day to present her with something new of that sort. It was as if in his mind a bottle of scent was an excellent substitute for the dolls of an earlier day— though he had actually continued to present those before someone, probably Vazul, had pointed out that she was at last grown up.

  She did not ring for Julta, her maid. Rather, she freed herself from the cocoon of covers, thrust her feet into her waiting fur-lined slippers, and crossed to seat herself on the bench of the dressing table, bending at once to sniff at the last faint remains of the burnt incense.

  The candles were hardly used and she snap-lighted them—all four—to lean forward a little to study her reflection in the wide mirror. Her hair was still night braided, but its dull brown shade was certainly not her best feature. She envied Zuta those sleek black strands that looked like lengths of satin. But—she was not too plain! For the first time Mahart allowed herself to believe that.

  There were a number of powders and creams available. She knew that Zuta was zealous in using such, but she had hesitated to try, thinking always of the tittering of maids who always discussed the actions of their mistresses behind their backs, or even arousing amusement in Zuta, who would be entirely too kind to tell her the truth. What would she do without Zuta!

  It seemed to Mahart that her companion lady was born knowing what Mahart had to learn. She could always say the right thing, do the gracious act, and had been quick when Mahart was younger to cover any awkwardness her mistress might cause. Though sometimes—sometimes Mahart wished that she still had Nurse.

  Nurse had known and served her mother and had been her refuge in childhood whenever her father's impatient avoidance had hurt. But Nurse was of childhood, too, gone away with a generous pension to take care of her daughter's family back in Bresta. Then Zuta had come, dazzling with her sophistication, though she was only three years older. She was an orphan of the plague but of high rank, and seemed well satisfied with her present lot.

  It had been Zuta who had told her of Halwice, the Herbmistress. Though she was so close kept in this shell, Mahart sighed and wished away all the fantastical carved furniture and comfort around her; perhaps it might be possible sometime to actually meet this purveyor of dreams and mistress of fragrance.

  Only—she was tired—tired—tired— Her mouth drooped at the corners and the growing depression of the last few months gripped her again. She was tired of her life, feeling stifled at times. If it were not that she had in the past discovered the great library what would she have known at all of the world around her—outside that shell her father had forged?

  Page by page she had traveled to far countries, confronted strange beasts and stranger peoples—and learned of Kronen of the past and the part her family had played in it. She believed that her father never entered the library; she was very certain that the Lady Saylana did not, though from time to time one of her serving people had come to search out a book, always on the shelves of the oldest ones where the leather backs left dust of decay upon the hands of would-be readers.

  There was her daily walk, of course, but it was strictly confined to the pocket-sized garden from which even the gardeners were warned away during that time. And her meals were in the stately, hollow magnificence of that dining room, where her father ate in hasty gulps, sometimes with Vazul, neither of them paying any attention to her.

  She encouraged Zuta to mingle with the other ladies of the court. The gossip she brought back was always enlightening. But, of course, there was no mingling of her own with Saylana's chosen servants. Though that assembly had shrunk in size since the death of the late Duke, his daughter still had her adherents and visitors.

  Mahart had seen Barbric, her son, from a distance and had not been greatly impressed. His shambling walk and foolish high laugh were certainly not that of a prospective Duke who would do justice to Kronen, but then—what of her father?

  At each meal he sat beneath the state portrait of her distant cousin and the difference grew more apparent every time she had viewed the two in such contrast.

  The mighty presence of the former Duke was certainly enough to overshadow most of the men she had seen. Captain Rangle of the Guard would come the closest to the firm jaw, that high-held head, that warrior's stance. Had Wubric really presented that overawing aspect to his subjects or was that his fancied idea of himself?

  Mahart continued to stare into the mirror. One could see how she appeared—to herself at least. Did she appear with the same nonentity to others? Take away her position here and who would bow and curtsey, ply her with shallow compliments?

  She rubbed her hand across her forehead wonderingly. Never before this morning had she asked so many such questions of herself. It was as if her dream—though it might not have freed her body—had lit a candle cluster in a dusky part of her mind.

  She leaned over once again to the brazier to see if she could catch any lingering trace of that fragrance just as a discreet knock on her door announced that she no longer had her privacy and would not for the rest of this long day.

  It was Julta, of course, her noiseless glide in contrast to her stiff-held back—Julta, who was able to express her reaction to anything by a down curve of lip or a lift of eyebrow. But Zuta had said that the maid was as close-mouthed among the servants as she was with her mistress; and she was quiet, deft, and sometimes seemed to fade into the background as if she had stepped into one of the many time-faded tapestries.

  She placed the silver tray she carried on the dressing table and poured from its matching pot the morning infusion of herbs supposed to enliven one for the day.

  “Your Grace rested well?”

  “As ever, Julta.”

  “There is a message from His Highness. He wishes your presence in his cabinet before Second Bell.”

  “Thank you,” Mahart said as she sipped the tea. Well, this day was one which was beginning surprisingly. She could count on her fingers the number of times her father had ever summoned her to that chamber which was the heart of his own cramped life. “I will wear the vine dress, Julta.”

  The maid had already
turned to the tall wardrobe. The vine dress—of a leaf green with its embroidered borders of silver vines—always gave Mahart confidence. And today there was something about its freshness which warred with the dark age of the room and reminded her of the open field and its gems of flowers.

  She suffered the pinning and pulling of her hair into the new style suggested by Zuta—divided into two braids which were then coiled one over each ear to be anchored with fine silver nets, the pins holding such sometimes a threat to one's scalp. The rest of the ritual of washing and dressing continued as usual—Julta as closemouthed as always, leaving Mahart to her scrambling of thoughts.

  What had she done lately which might have actually stirred her father into not only remembering he had a daughter but summoning her at this hour for speech? But her conscience was clear enough. So it was not some misconduct of the past but some new regulation of the future that she was facing.

  As she selected from the jewel casket Julta held open the simple chain of silver leaves which she always wore with this gown there was a second knock at the door. Mahart was allowed to fasten the necklace for herself as Julta went to let in Zuta—though it was early for the lady-companion to appear.

  As usual Mahart immediately felt drab. Zuta's gown outlined her form as closely as if she wore no chemise beneath. Its dark blue satin, the same shade as her heavy-lidded eyes, was not, however, cut as low at the bodice as those of the ladies who attended Saylana appeared to find in fashion, and her hair had been all but completely hidden by a gold-patterned baglike headdress.

  She curtseyed and rose smiling.

  “I see I chose well, Your Grace. You arose refreshed this morning.” She glanced from Mahart to the brazier.

  “True,” Mahart agreed, “it was all you promised, Zuta. Surely this Herbmistress has great knowledge. I wish,” before she thought (and why did she suddenly believe that this was a thought she did not wish to share?) “that I might visit this famous shop for myself.”

  With a slight frown, Zuta shook her head. ‘ ‘That is not the way, Your Grace. Should you wish to know more of what the Herbmistress has to offer, summon her and ask that she bring samples—if His Highness will approve. After all, he has always allowed you to select from Master Gorgias the best material for your gowns, and did he not give you last name day the moss lily scent you liked so well? Remind him of that when you ask to meet the Herbmistress, for it, too, came from her distilling. Now—what is your will?”

  She stood waiting by the door. Mahart denied herself a last glance in the mirror as she answered.

  “His Highness desires my presence in his cabinet before Second Bell. I shall have to wait to break my fast this morning, Zuta.”

  For a moment she thought she saw Zuta's lips begin to form a question. If the lady-companion wanted to know why this out-of-custom demand had been ordered, she was trained well enough in etiquette not to ask.

  So Mahart went alone down the staircase into the busier section of the castle. Guardsmen she was hardly aware of snapped to attention as she passed until she reached the door she sought. There the guardsman thudded the butt of his spear of ceremony on the floor loud as any fist against that portal.

  There was a muffled answer from within and the guardsman unbent enough from his statue pose to open the door and announce: “Her Grace, the High Lady Mahart, Your Highness.”

  Mahart took a deep breath and stepped forward. The heavy draperies at all the windows had been pulled open, and there was a measure of daylight added to by candles on the wide desk. He was not alone; standing to one side and curving forward in a formal bow was Vazul.

  Mahart's eyes widened, but she swept the deep, formal court curtsey to her father. Why the Chancellor should be present was an added puzzle.

  “Give you a fair day, Father, and may fortune favor you.” She was glad that her voice sounded steady enough.

  “Yes, yes—” The Duke waved an impatient hand, and his aspect was certainly not welcoming. But he stared at her strangely. His eyes actually seemed to open the wider, as if she were some curiosity being presented to his notice.

  “Sit—” He jerked his hand again, this time toward a chair which the Chancellor had drawn forward.

  Sit she did, but now uneasiness was fully awake in her. What did they want of her? That Vazul was a part of her being here she did not doubt.

  “You are of age.” Uttobric was now shuffling papers back and forth on the desktop as if he were discovering that he was finding it difficult to select the proper words. “Of age,” he repeated quickly, “to be betrothed.”

  Mahart's folded hands tightened on each other. She knew well that in this subject she had no choice at all.

  He paused and was looking at her expectantly.

  “Yes, Father.” She pinched out the answer he seemed to have been waiting for as he now continued.

  “As a woman matters of statecraft are beyond your judgment. But this is something which you must understand, for it means the safety of the duchy. As you well know, I was not in the direct line of descent but was elevated to serve Kronen by fate when my second cousin and the other male heirs died in the plague.

  “By law the rule could not pass to the High Lady Saylana, as no woman ever rules, nor could it go to that son of hers"—his mouth twisted as if he could have added a few scathing words to describe Barbric—"as I lived. But though fortune favored me in one way, it scanted me in another. Your mother bore me only a daughter.”

  He made that sound, Mahart thought, as if in some way her only faintly remembered mother had deliberately arranged such a mishap.

  “Now listen closely, girl, to what our good Chancellor has found in his lengthy search of the laws—for there are sometimes twists and turns in old decrees which can bring proper solutions.”

  Vazul moved into the full light of the window as if he needed to capture her attention and hold it. One of his shoulders seemed higher, and then she made out the inky black of that creature he was never seen without and which was held in dislike by all the court.

  “In the reign of Duke Kathbric the Second"—his voice had a certain hypnotic quality and she was strangely eager for him to continue—"a similar situation arose. He had only a daughter, the High Lady Rothanna. The next heir, a distant cousin, was one who had betrayed his royal blood over and over by dastardly actions. Duke Kathbric appealed to the House of the Star. Those Chosen Ones prayed and petitioned in his behalf, and at last she who was abbess at that time was given a vision at the very altar. Others witnessed the silver beam, but only she saw who stood within.

  “Thus the Star Dweller made answer: if the Lady Rothanna wed with one of equal blood who would enter into Kronen not as a visitor but as native to spend his life here, then the Duke, after that marriage or when his last days arrived, could proclaim this son-in-law now a son by blood.

  “They sought for such a man and discovered him in Arsena across the sea. He was in exile, expelled from his land by the great conqueror Lantee, his former kingdom completely swallowed up by that Emperor's act.

  ‘ ‘He had been first son to the king of his own land, but now was the only survivor of his line. His descent was proven by those from Kronen who searched. And he was brought here, married to Rothanna, and subsequently proclaimed son by descent.”

  Vazul's hand, raised to stroke the creature, seemed to move in rhythm with his words. Now he paused.

  That strange feeling of another self opening within her moved Mahart daringly to speak.

  “If this happened once—why not again? The High Lady Saylana—”

  “The High Lady Saylana"—her father's grating voice almost made that a threat—"has, unfortunately for her, a strong will. She refused to follow the proper orders of her father and married Lord Aliken—entranced by his looks and the fact he was a public hero after putting down the outlaws at their stronghold at Volon. At the plague time she discovered to her cost what she had done. Her father and her lord were both swept away, and the latter had only been a noble
for five generations and so was well outside any royal line.

  “Such folly"—her father was continuing—"will not occur again. You have heard Vazul, praise the Star, he found this divine precedent—now you will do your duty.”

  Mahart suddenly shivered. Marriage was always, she understood, among those of the blood a gamble like the tossing of Fate Stones. Few girls ever even saw their intended before the wedding day. But to face this fate suddenly was frightening.

  “Who—” she began when her father cut her short.

  “All things will come in order at the proper time.”

  “Your Highness.” Vazul's voice was soft but had in it the force of a reminder.

  “Yes, yes.” Uttobric slapped his hand down on the paper-strewn desk. ‘ ‘You are not fitted yet for court; there will be lessons. And then there will come a visitor whom you will meet with all goodwill. Now, go—I have much to do.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. Vazul in two swift strides was at the door bowing as he opened it. As she passed she caught a faint whisper: “You will have more freedom, High Lady—take care how you use it.”

  3

  That scent which made Willadene's flesh prickle was strong. But for a moment she had to blink to adjust her sight to the very dim light within the shop. The lamp which always burned all night at the other end of the room was the only glimmer here now, except for the sliver of daylight stretching out from the half-open door.

  Willadene's sandaled foot nearly nudged a huddled shape on the floor—Halwice? Her hands flew to her lips, but she did not utter that scream which filled her throat. Why, she could not tell, but that it was necessary to be quiet now was like an order laid upon her.

  Her eyes were drawn beyond that huddled body to a chair which did not belong in the shop at all but had been pulled from the inner room. In that sat the Herbmistress, unmoving and silent. Dead—?

  Willadene's hands were shaking, but somehow she pulled herself around that other body on the floor toward where one of the strong lamps, used when one was mixing powders, sat. Luckily the strike light was also there, and after two attempts she managed to set spark to the wick.