Free Scent of Magic by Andre Norton Page A

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 whichseemed 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 Willadenehad 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