Free Scent of Magic by Andre Norton

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