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  She would have guards. However, such, being armed men, could not enter the inner courts of the Abbey—that she knew. She would take Zuta—luckily those two who had been added to her retinue at the court had not been pressed upon her as daily companions—but, yes, she would accept even their company also if necessary. She somehow doubted that either of them was well-known behind the Abbey walls.

  “I shall go as a pilgrim—” She spoke her decision aloud.

  “But, Your Grace, His Highness—he will not allow you to walk so the streets!” Zuta was quick to answer.

  “Even my father cannot stand against well-rooted custom. My mother herself went so to meet the Abbess Gofrera before the plague. No, let Julta lay out my gray overrobe and the plainest of my cloaks. I think I shall make this pilgrimage today.” Before, she said to herself, my father may change his mind.

  There was certainly a stir among those who had been added to make up a miniature court of her own since she had taken a part in public affairs. However, precedent had its way. She was able to recite quellingly the names of those near the ducal throne who had done likewise in times past. But she was forced to delay her venture for another day, since the guard captain himself came to tell her that such streets as she would traverse must be readied for her procession.

  “It is only fit, Your Grace. Those who live under the ducal protection will want to view Your Grace, and we must be ready to counter any surge of crowds. His Highness would not allow it otherwise.”

  So she had to wait two tedious days, fearing each hour would bring a denial from her father. Zuta, with her subtle ability to collect information, reported that there were conferences being held in the Duke’s study. Messengers had gone out, and there was even a hint that the senior officers had been brought into at least one conference. However, none of this appeared to have any connection with Mahart, and she blessed the business which perhaps had even once more made the Duke forget he had a daughter.

  Thus on the fourth day, dressed in the plainest gown of her wardrobe, she, herself, bearing a casket in which lay her personal gift to the Abbey’s charity, for the first time she could really remember, set foot on the cobbles—discreetly covered, of course, by procession carpets—of Kronengred.

  There were crowds—even as the guard captain had promised—and they raised a hail which for a moment or two she could not believe was meant to honor her. Children squirmed and ran along the edges of the carpet just beyond the reaches of the guards, and Mahart found herself laughing freely at their antics, daring to smile at the townspeople.

  This was a far different world from the somber castle, and she reveled in what she could see even as she heard such cries as “The Star bless Your Grace.”

  The procession wound through several streets, so she caught glimpses of shops behind the crowds and wished she could explore those on her own. But the Abbey loomed above them all too soon.

  Here was another crowd gathered, not the well-clad, prosperous-looking people who had crowded to cheer. No, here was an old man bent nearly double, his wrapped body supported by two sticks; a woman whose dress was fashioned by patch cobbled upon patch; a blind man led by a small girl with yellow eyes and the look of one who had too great a burden laid upon her young—and others like them. They cowered back at the sight of the guardsmen as Mahart approached the wide door of the Abbey being thrown open for her to enter.

  “Beggars.” Zuta had moved up until she was hardly a step behind Mahart. “They have come for the daily bread.”

  Mahart had no time to answer, to even sort out her thoughts about the unfortunates before the gate. For there was a tall, thronelike chair set up only a few steps farther on, where a woman in a dull gray robe and cloak, with only a glittering star-shaped crystal, sat with the same—or more—authority than her father sat on the ducal throne.

  Remembering what she had read of such meetings Mahart sank into a curtsey as deep as that she would make to the Duke himself on some formal occasion.

  The woman on the seat extended a silver rod which seemed to emit a gleam of its own, and Mahart kissed the second crystal star at its tip.

  The face, within the muffled swathing which covered all the hair, was wrinkled and worn by years, but the lips curved in a smile which was open and welcoming.

  “In the Star’s sight, Your Grace is welcome.” That voice was surprisingly hearty. “It is well, my daughter, that you have chosen to come.”

  Mahart turned a little, to hand the casket she had carried to another caped and robed figure whose hood was pulled so far forward that she could not see any face.

  ‘‘For the poor—’’ Mahart began, and then added almost before she thought, “Lady Abbess, they wait now at the gate. Let them not be cheated by my coming, but let me also serve those who ill fortune has crushed.”

  The Abbess nodded. Mahart jerked her sleeve free from the grasp Zuta had caught and turned around, her other ladies retreating. There were Sisters by the gate now, each with a basket in her hand. Mahart, brushing by those who had followed her, waved to the guards.

  “Back—let the Sisters do as is set upon us by the Star.”

  The men withdrew, visibly reluctant, but at last some of the beggars dared to approach. Mahart dipped her own hand into the basket of the nearest Sister, her fingers closing on a round of greasy bread which she held out to the small girl clinging to the patched dress of the woman. The child seized upon it as if she feared that it would be taken away from her again. The mother dipped in an awkward curtsey.

  “Star’s shine upon you, Your Grace.” She was staring at Mahart now in open awe.

  “And upon you also, goodwife,” answered Mahart.

  Thus, before the eyes of many in Kronengred was seen that day that the Duke’s daughter, about whom foul rumors had spread, was fair of face, straight of body, and kind of heart. Vazul’s advice had accomplished even more than he had thought.

  5

  At the toll of the First Bell Willadene awoke in the nest of covers in the trundle bed, covers which were clean and smelled of lavender and sweet clover. She loved the way they seemed to smooth her skin and somehow trap her in dreams in which no shadows crouched. So much had changed in the last twenty days—it was as if she had passed through a door to enter a new and glorious world.

  She rubbed her hands together. The creams Halwice brewed were fast taking away the small scars and roughness the years of kitchen service had engraved into her skin.

  And it had all started when she had obeyed Halwice’s orders and had left the shop on the morning which seemed so far away now, made her trembling way down the alley, found those swinging boards in what looked like a forbidding fence, and so had come into this Star-blessed place.

  She had crept into the house that day and had been instantly aware of voices in the outer room, though that dark-shadowed form under the settle had not moved. But more than mere curiosity had led her to peer around the edge of the door curtain.

  Halwice had stood behind her counter, but Willadene had noted that she still kept a hold on its edge. Her voice, however, had been as strong and vibrant as usual.

  “Not so, steward,” she had been saying. “Yes, we get such fragrances now and then from overseas. But as you well know the merchant caravans are not as plentiful as they were—and much of what I await is fragile and easily broken.

  ‘‘What you ask for at the request of your mistress is no longer mine to sell.” She had tapped a finger lightly on the top of that rose bottle. “His Highness had already ordered it for his daughter’s name day.”

  The man had shrugged. His livery overjerkin had been dark blue, bearing on both breast and back entwined silver symbols Willadene could not distinguish.

  “Her Grace pays well—also she had heard that you yourself, mistress, can distill scents fully equal to those from overseas.”

  “To each his or her trade, steward. The blending of a new oil or fragrance often takes years of labor. Unfortunately Kronen is not blessed with wide gardens
. Most of my herbs grown here are for healing or cooking.” She had smiled, not altogether a friendly smile, Willadene had shrewdly judged.

  “Of course, should I ever be Star-blessed enough to find the Heart-Hold—then indeed I would have a treasure to offer.”

  “The Heart-Hold,” he had repeated. “Pray tell what that may be.”

  Halwice had shrugged. “The tale is very old, perhaps mostly forgotten by now. But it was said that once a Star-blessed healer in Kronen chanced upon a flower so perfect in form, so soothing in scent, that she kept it immersed in oil, sealed well against the air. And she discovered that those who looked upon it must come again and again, so her business prospered. But, at last, at year’s turn she was sent a dream that not for any gain in this world was Heart-Hold intended. And with the morrow she took it as an offering to Hasker—”

  “Hasker! But that—”

  “The Abbey was assaulted by night, by wolf heads, men said. Its treasures were taken, the Star-servers put to the sword. And that was well over three hundred years ago. Never since has Heart-Hold been found. But there are tales—one lady who dipped but the tip of her finger within the oil which preserved it was so sought after that she wed far above her station and her lord was firmly faithful for all his life. But that is all legend now. And—to return to your desire, steward, if I get another such Breath of Roses I shall send a message to the High Lady Saylana. You may take my word for that.”

  It was plain that he had to be satisfied, though he had been scowling as he had taken silver pieces from his belt pouch and rung them down on the counter. However, Willadene had noted that the wrapped package he’d taken up in return he had handled with care. It had been some long moments after he had left before Halwice had moved. Her head had been turned toward the open door, as if by some means of her own she could see beyond walls to watch him out of sight.

  Then she had slowly gone to that door, shut it firmly, having hung a small signboard on its outer side. Only when she had dropped the bar latch had she turned toward the inner room.

  She had pushed aside the curtain and nodded to Willadene without comment as if she had fully expected to find the girl right there.

  “Light the lamps—” she had ordered. “We must have full sight.”

  The girl had hastened to obey, and, with five lamps ablaze, every shadow had been banished and she could easily see the curve of body beneath the settle. Halwice had said he lived, but he had certainly not moved since her labor had stuffed him there.

  “Bring him out.” The Herbmistress had subsided onto a stool, leaving an open space on the floor.

  That had been more easily ordered than done, but at length Willadene had the limp man stretched out faceup. In this very bright light she had been able to make out more of his features. He was, she had decided, much younger than she had first supposed, nor was he uncomely. His features were sharp and fine, and there was none of the lumpishness and blotched skin which had plagued Figis at the inn.

  Halwice had surveyed him intently—he might have been some subtle problem in the combining of two of her treasured substances. She had sighed.

  ‘‘Well, let us to it. Go to the bed cupboard, press twice with the palm of your hand just beyond where the sliding door now stands—toward the rear wall of the room.”

  Willadene had hesitated, and Halwice’s glance at her had become a stare. “What keeps you, girl? Time is our enemy now.”

  “Mistress, you make me very free of your secrets,” the girl had said slowly. “I am not even signed to your service.”

  Halwice had smiled. “But that is what you want in your heart—have wanted—is it not?”

  At Willadene’s vigorous nod she had continued. “That can well be arranged. Yes, I am making you free of secrets, but I do that because—by the Star—I know of what material you are wrought. Some of us are favored from birth with gifts. If we would truly serve as we were meant to do, then we use those—”

  “The nose—” ventured Willadene.

  “Yes, the nose—but yours is not only for scenting what lies about you in flask and jar, pot and pan, but also within. What did you smell when you pushed in the door at your morning’s coming?”

  “Evil!” The word had been out of her lips before she had truly thought it.

  As one who was satisfied with her own opinion, Halwice had nodded. “Do you smell such now?”

  Willadene had tested the air about, which to her was soaked with such a wealth of scents it would have taken her a goodly time to list. But that which the Herbmistress had brought to her mind was gone.

  “You see?” Halwice had not waited for her answer. “Even as you—I, also, possess, by Star’s Grace, that gift. You can be trusted; and you will be, for you have been swept into matters which are both great and dire. Now, bring me what you find within the niche there.”

  Willadene had placed her hands as she had been ordered, and the seemingly solid board had given, sliding away even as the outer doors to the bed. Inside had been a box, and from it had issued a scent Willadene had never encountered before—it had been sharp and clear, almost like fresh, prickling brine. She had brought it to the Herbmistress, who had balanced it on her knees before she had opened it.

  Like the shelves in the shop cupboards without, the interior of the box had been divided into many compartments, each with its own lid, while fastened within the coffer of the chest itself had been a flat dishlike platter no larger than two hands pressed together.

  “This"—Halwice had wrestled it loose from its hold— “must be placed on him heart-high.”

  Willadene had taken it quickly and had done just that, seeing that it rested steadily. Halwice had already been opening the compartments. One or two she hesitated over and reclosed, but from the chatelaine clipped to her girdle she had already freed another small but deeper measure, and into this, with the spoon chained to its edge, she had shifted first this and that—

  The tingling sharp scent had grown ever stronger. Yet it had not been unpleasant. Instead, it had appeared to clear the head, made Willadene, in an unprecedented way, much more aware of all about her.

  The spoon had then been used to stir the powders together. Halwice, her hands so busied, had pointed with her chin.

  “Beneath the bed pillow—a bag. Bring it!”

  It had not been as large as a purse, and Willadene had found it was full of what felt like pebbles.

  “Open"—Halwice had been still stirring—"but take care.”

  Willadene had untied the knot of the drawstring, and open it she did—to shake into hand that which caught and reflected the light as if they glowed with inner fire. Jewels—but none had been cut to use. They were like fragments of larger pieces which had been deliberately shattered.

  “Now"—Halwice had edged her stool a fraction forward—"you must set a pattern, and it must be even as I tell you, for this can only be done once—and without fault. Search what you hold for two white crystals and place them above the crown of Nicolas’s head.”

  Willadene had obeyed; at least the stranger had at last been given a name.

  “Now choose blue, each one to be put halfway between those already set,” continued the Herbmistress.

  Last of all, Halwice had held out the bowl whose contents she had been energetically stirring all the while.

  “Shake what lies within this on the heart plate, gently—it must not spread too far.”

  Diligently the girl had done just that. It had not puffed out as she had expected such ashy material to do, but formed a small mound.

  “Look you now for the starred crystal,” came the next order, and that she had done.

  There had been such, not so unformed as the others, and smoother-edged but centered with an unmistakable star-shaped heart.

  “Thrust that into the powder!”

  Willadene had obeyed. It had been as if she had applied a snap light, for smoke had begun to rise. About a hand’s space above its source it had split into six equal trails, and eac
h one of those had set out to touch a jewel.

  The sharp clean scent had made Willadene feel that she herself, if she wished it, could have risen from the floor where she crouched, taken on wings, and soared beyond the world she had always known. Halwice had been speaking again, but not to give her an order.

  Instead, the Herbmistress’s voice had risen and fallen in a chant which had been like a song, needing no harp to keep in mastering tune. The words had been strange, and the crooning had seemed to slur them together at times.

  Now the smoke had woven a cloud above nearly half of the quiet body. The girl could no longer see his face. Halwice’s body had rocked back and forth slightly as she’d continued to chant.

  Willadene had caught a glimpse of the Herbmistress’s features across the inert body. The woman had plainly been under great strain, yet she herself dared not move to give her any aid.

  The smoke forming that sight-repelling mask had moved again. Willadene had been sure she could detect tendrils drawing back into their source. And she had been right. But there had been nothing on the plate, not even scorch marks of any burning. And the brilliance of the gems had dimmed.

  Halwice’s head had fallen on her breast as if she could no longer hold it upright. Without orders Willadene had leaned over to gather up the gems and restore them to the bag. Then that dark-haired head had moved, and eyes of a gray of a steel blade and with the same grim threat in them had stared up at her.

  “Who by the Horns of Gratch are you?” His voice had been low, hardly clearer than a whisper, and it had come like a cat’s challenging hiss.

  Willadene had hurriedly hunched back as he’d used his elbows to lever himself to a near-sitting position. He had looked around, caught sight of Halwice, and frozen in that awkward pose. Then his head had swung again so he could see Willadene, and in that moment she had realized just what he was viewing—the grimy, tatter-clad drudge of the inn.

  Then he had moved swiftly, with far more speed than she could have thought possible for that supine body of moments earlier. Before she’d been able to draw herself farther back his fingers had twisted in her hair, bringing pain as he jerked her upward until they were both standing.