Scent of Magic Read online

  “Being alone she was gathered up with the other orphans in her ward and arbitrarily apprenticed to the cook-owner of the Wanderers Inn, an unsavory place but one with which the Reeve’s guard can find no overt fault especially since they are blood kin. This cook is one of those bullies who welcome a victim, and the girl has been hers ever since. Now she threatens to wed the girl to a suspicious character we have been watching carefully, as she wants the bride price. The girl fled for aid to Halwice, who has tested her and discovered she has a natural talent for her own work. Halwice has appealed to the Reeve’s court to reassign the girl to her care and a suggestion"—he smiled again—’ ‘from a high quarter has made this now a fact. No, set your fears to rest, my lord, she is not one of the spiders’ netting.”

  “If you say so.” The Duke shruggea. “Now as to this news from abroad—so Prince Lorien is at odds with his father, King Hawkner?”

  “So much so,” Vazul said, “that he and his followers—all well trained, some of them former border guards—have withdrawn to the hold of Keesal.”

  The Duke dropped the paper he was holding, swept it aside with a number of others to uncover a map. He picked up a round glass from the desk and held it over the northwest corner of the map.

  “Near the border,” he commented.

  “Near something else also, Highness,” Vazul remarked. “Look to the left of Mount Nastor—”

  “A red dot,” the Duke replied, and then lifted his head swiftly to meet his Chancellor eye to eye. “That is the Red Wolfs den!”

  Vazul nodded approvingly. “Just so. Of late, the Red Wolfs pickings have been lean. Since you withdrew the garrison at Krantz—”

  “Which I had to do!” snapped the Duke. “If we do not keep the main highways free of despoilers the merchants will begin to ask awkward questions again.”

  “The Wolf is beginning to hunger, yes. And the Prince’s party is small. This outlaw is bold-thoughted enough to plan a quick raid across the border, maybe believing that he will not be pursued and that it would take time to send our troops thither.”

  “Lorien’s men are veterans, you say?” The Duke leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin with one hand.

  “The Prince is not a berserker out for war on all fronts. However, he is well-known to admire feats of arms and has voluntarily served two terms with the Borderers. In fact, his present quarrel with the King began from the fact that he absents himself from court too much and there are questions raised contrasting his abilities with the heir who is of a rather indolent nature.”

  “Can it be done?” The Duke leaned forward in his chair.

  “It is far from impossible,” Vazul was replying when there came a diffident tap at the door.

  “In with you!” the Duke cried out, loud enough to be heard. The door swung open only far enough to admit a page, looking as wide-eyed as a cornered puppy surrounded by evil-tempered hunting hounds. The small silver tray he bore shook as the Chancellor plucked off the folded paper there before it fluttered to the floor.

  “For Your Highness.” He bowed as he held out the message.

  “All right, all right. Away with you, boy, this is no morning for interruptions.”

  Thankfully the page bowed himself hastily out, shutting the door behind him with a sound which was close to a slam.

  Already the Duke had unfolded the paper. His flush grew a little deeper as he tossed it to the table. “It is always so with women—they can never be satisfied.”

  Vazul picked the paper up, read the few lines with more ease than the Duke had done, and then, to his master’s complete surprise, said: “Well done. She has learned her part well. It has been true that all High Ladies of the family, Highness, meet with the Abbess of the Star. They, in fact, provide some funds for the poor. Yes, the Abbey lies without these walls, but the High Lady will go in a measure of state, giving the commoners a chance to see her. There can be no more tales that she is crippled or a monster of ugliness—”

  “What!” The Duke’s flush had now deepened alarmingly, and he half arose from his chair, both fists planted on the desktop as he leaned forward to face the Chancellor.

  “Who has said such of my daughter? He will choke on those lies when he swings from the north wall!”

  “Rumor has said it—and doubtless that rumor was helped along by some we can name. You have kept her so pent that few have ever seen her. Now you have displayed her to the court and those of noble birth, let her also be known and seen by the people.”

  Mahart sat, the all-important paper stretched between her two hands. She could hardly yet believe that her daring to address her father with a request had served her so well. Now she rubbed her thumb over his seal at the bottom of that short page and passed to the second part of her plan.

  She had never been taught to ride and the second way to reach her goal was to be hidden from sight by the curtains of a horse litter. But her reading in the library had provided her with an argument against that. Pilgrimage—that was it!

  Not one in which one made many days’ travel into the mountains in the west where the Star first was manifest. No, but she could cite that her first visit to the all-important Abbey here could be counted a pilgrimage.

  Other Duchesses and High Ladies had certainly gone on foot from castle to Abbey in the days past, and it was taken as only fit and proper that they should approach the greatest shrine in Kronen in a mock-humble manner. Mahart was well aware that she would never be allowed to make such a journey alone—actually walking through the streets of the city she had only seen during all these years from balconies as a spread of roofs below.

  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 mean
t 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.