Andre Norton - Oak, Yew, Ash & Rowan 1 - To The King A Daughter Read online

  To the King A Daughter by Andre Norton and Sasha Miller

  Prologue

  It is only to be expected that all along the roads known to travelers there are shrines, some moss-grown and older than the last three dynasties of rulers.

  There are also the fanes—the cathedrals—and the lesser churches and chapels in every village and town. And does not the Great Fane of the Glowing overshine all of Rendel? These sanctuaries are in honor of that which cannot be seen or understood but under the rule of which, all life abides.

  Yet the Almighty One remains in toils to the dark-handed Weavers, who know neither mercy nor concern for the lives they twist into their Web Everlasting.

  It is only needful that the pattern be not too greatly altered; so here a life-thread is broken, frayed, and left, and there one snapped is woven into another time and place, and sometimes even into a different square of Time's Web. The living may believe that they are free to make decisions, to act as they believe fit, but their thread goes through the fingers of a Weaver. Thus, some live, some die, Kingdoms rise and fall and are forgotten; yet still the Web shows no break. Does the Unknown ever view that weaving? If not, of what use are the petitions of lower life? Threads only, yet what a spread of color! What a net of history hangs ever on the Loom!

  However, there are tales in plenty of those whose threads were entangled strangely and who came to ends far different from their beginnings.

  Look at that part of the weaving which is the country of Rendel, great in its own eyes at least, for it is in the courtyard of the Fane of the Glowing that the Four Trees stand, and in a window of that Fane can be seen the reflection of the Dark Hands. On one night of autumn sleet and the courageous hold on life, there began in this reflection the weaving of a new thread, the snapping of an old one, and changes believed impossible years earlier.

  Weave well now, you silent fingers, for the pattern is no longer twisted in the familiar way.

  One

  The chill gray mist of early morning had become a driving sword blade of sleet before noon when their last horse foundered. This was the Bale-Bog, or the edge of it, and no sane Outlander forced his way into that sludge of bottomless pools and unsteady islets unless the need was urgent.

  The woman who had been plucked from the exhausted horse, escaping being borne down with it just in time, managed somehow to keep to her feet, but only because there was a hard, broad shoulder and a tough, war-trained body there to support her.

  Instinctively, her hands pressed her swollen belly, and a grimace of pain twisted her once-beautiful, now gaunt features.

  "How do you, Lady Alditha?"

  The rumble of that voice came from the chest very close to her ear. She could feel under the sodden folds of a trooper's cloak a fineness of mail, which no common trooper could hope to wear. Forcing all sign of pain from her, she looked up into the weathered face of Hasard, the Marshal of the House of Ash. The icy wind drove the ends of a wide, gray mustache against his half-hidden lips.

  "I do as well as I might, my lord." She brought out the words one by one, as if they were separately strung on a too-loose cord. Somehow, she summoned the pitiful shadow of a smile.

  Two men wearing beggars' trappings over studded leather were stripping the bags from the downed horse. She could not see their faces. For a moment, her vision dimmed, overridden by the thrust of pain that swept through her. They were all who were left—just the two soldiers and the man who had once led the Ash host.

  And somehow she believed it was the fierce determination of the man now steadying her that had brought them also to this ending. She must strive to honor him with her strength, such as it was, and not betray his faithfulness by a display of female weakness.

  Their greatest need was shelter. Without shelter, they would all be stark by morning. Ashenhold, where they might have been safe, was denied them. Again her hand supported her heavy belly.

  Hasard—his appearance far different from what it had been in the days of his splendor as the Marshal of Ashenhold and the command he had led with keen wits and all the knowledge of one soldiering from boyhood—still sheltered her as best he could. He made his body a shield between her and as many of those icy blasts as he could wall away. There was not time now—

  So many lives dashed out, ended by dagger in the dark, by sword during day, by poison offered with a sly smile that touched only one corner of the mouth. So many women dead, all of them Ash. She tried to shut it out of her memory but could not escape the fact that not only did she exist because of the child she bore—whom her pursuers would pluck from her living body if they could— but that the very child also brought her the greatest of danger. Once she had thought to deny; no more. In her womb she carried the heir not only to Ash, but to Oak as well, if the King's wishes would prevail when it came to heir-naming, for this was his only progeny, whether legal or not. Certainly her child was greater than she and her present companions combined. They had fled on this very night, bearing the Ash badge, trying to escape the Yew badge of the Queen who would reach beyond death itself for revenge, should that be necessary.

  "Sir?" The men who had dealt with the horse awaited orders.

  She felt rather than saw Hasard's head lift. His hoarse voice broke through the screech of the storm. "The river—"

  Ah, yes, the river; her wits were growing more murky. That waterway, part natural, part man-enhanced, had always been a merchant's path, but in fairer weather. Tonight it might not gain them safety in either direction, not from those who pursued, but there was no other road for them to follow.

  One of the men pushed past her and her loyal protector. Could they indeed have reached a previously prepared point of safety in spite of the storm, despite her weakness?

  With all the Ash Family pride she could muster, she kept to her feet when, a few moments later, Hasard urged her forward, step by faltering step. However, she could not go far on sheer nerve alone. She was near to fainting when she became dimly aware of being lifted, deposited on a damp pile of something that smelled like dead fish and things long rotten. It must have been a litter. She knew that it swung as they boarded a raftlike boat meant for the transport of heavy goods.

  Her teeth closed on the hand she raised to her mouth, and drew blood.

  They needed—least of all, now—the travail that despite her inexperience, she was sure was near upon her. For as long as possible, she must keep silent.

  Then it all became as if some dream had descended upon her, carrying her within it. She heard a shout, a muffled cry from near to hand, and knew not if it had been she who had raised the outcry or one of her companions. A boat. Yes, they were on a boat; she knew that much.

  The twang of a bow—strong yew, given by the Will of the Above as a weapon—cut through the dream. Between pangs, she spoke, her head bent forward so that she might address the babe she carried within her.

  "Oak and Yew, Ash and Rowan—truly yours, my son, my daughter, whomever I carry to the end."

  Pain like none she had known before blotted out her world. The sounds of battle went almost unheeded. She was only faintly aware that men died beside her, that

  Has-ard, even with an arrow through him, leaped into the water and with all the strength left in him, pushed the boat on into the dead gloom of the Bale-Bog, that core of danger. The craft lurched forward and immediately began dipping into the current, starting to spin. If she had had time, she might have become ill. Instead, she fainted.

  A lifetime later, there came warmth, faint light, a shadow bending over her.

  "Push,
woman!" commanded that shadow. "Push as we must when we are in your case."

  Weakly, she tried to obey, willing to answer any order that might put an end to her torment. Pressure. The slippery feeling of something departing her body.

  Then she felt herself likewise slipping away. Darkness began closing in, but not before she heard a voice, far off and very faint.

  "A girl child—"

  Zazar held the squalling baby aloft in the full light of the hearth fire.

  Healthy she was, with lusty cries that spoke well of the infant's chances for survival. Large, too—aye, one such as this would indeed have nigh torn apart her bearer. A fair fluff now dried on its head, and already it gazed upon the world, its cries temporarily stilled, looking as if for a moment it recognized, with knowledge beyond its age, where it was. And perhaps why it was.

  "The woman be dead." The crooked-legged crone who served the Wysen-wyf looked at her mistress. With her thumb, she indicated the body. "She was quality folk, but we all come to the same end sooner or later. Do we give the babe also to the underwater-eaters? Joal will not take kindly to the sheltering of Outlander."

  Zazar, proceeding after the fashion, which had been hers for years, washed the baby and wrapped it in the softest of her woven reed-fluff blankets. "We need a tit. Use the bottle on the second shelf," she said, as if she had not even heard

  Kazi's question.

  Grumbling, Kazi obeyed; when the babe opened its mouth again to cry in hunger, the tit—heavy with the mixture Zazar employed to foster all manner of orphans— was ready for it.

  "Joal be coming—" Kazi began again. With her good foot, she pushed at the limp, bloodied body of the woman. She sighed.

  Zazar knew that Kazi had already managed, or so she hoped, to filch unseen from the dead one's cloak a shiny circle of a brooch set with a blue stone. It was undoubtedly the most beautiful piece of jewelry Kazi had ever had. In fact, it was the only piece of jewelry she had ever had. Zazar had taken some effort to instill in Kazi the certainty that her mistress had eyes not only in the back of her head, but all around it as well. Let Kazi think she had overlooked the brooch and because of that, wouldn't take it away from her. Actually, she didn't care one way or another.

  "Yes, I agree. The woman is dead," Zazar said calmly. "Let Joal have what remains of her. The child, however…" She spoke slowly. The baby seemed satisfied, full-fed and sleepy. Zazar leaned closer to the lantern that lit up all the tools of her calling—bones, and seeds, dried leaves, the stiff, stark body of an orb snake.

  With care, she drew aside the wrapping about the child.

  She had to be completely certain. Yes, the resemblance to both the mother and the father showed even now on the infant's unformed features. No mistaking the color of that hair-fluff or the future regal shape of nose, lips, face. She had seen the woman many times in the scrying-pot, and everyone in Rendel knew the man on sight. Further, she had confirmed her visions with the bones. Zazar's smile was gone; her lips tightened. Oh, yes, she had read the bones many times over in these past ten days, and every time they had told the same tale.

  She held one who would be a changer, perhaps would even break the bonds of the

  Bog-land itself. Would it be for good or for ill? Zazar did not know; the bones refused to tell her. For a moment, she was tempted. It would be so very easy to put her hand over the small mouth and nose and let daughter follow mother, as any of the Bog-people would demand that she do.

  But somehow, somehow there was that which forbade such action. She knew what she nursed. Before covering the little body again, she nodded. It was not to Kazi that she spoke, but to the Something that could ever command them all.

  'To the King." She carefully chose the words of state that should rightfully have greeted the child after the trumpet blasts proclaiming its arrival: "To our most worthy Lord King, a daughter!"

  Kazi huddled, curled protectively into a ball, and suddenly Zazar turned to look at her, as if remembering she had a listener. She loosed one forefinger from the hold she kept upon the babe and pointed at her servant. "Be silent!"

  A thread of Power went out from that finger and enveloped Kazi. Zazar watched it vanish into the woman's skin. It might not be Kazi's will that would keep her silent now and in the future, but this would.

  The Wysen-wyf did not rise but moved on her knees to the still body of the noblewoman. In the firelight, the woman's gaunt face looked old and pinched, with scarcely a trace remaining of the beauty that had once been the pride of her kindred. Zazar studied it carefully and laughed.

  "So my little servants of the night cackle and squeak to a purpose, do they?

  Ashenkin, Ash-daughter, where is your man now? Perhaps in time you would have prevailed, but you never really had him save by the lusts of the body, and those quickly fade." She inclined her head a fraction. "Yet you bore the child reluctantly. I remember your servant who came to me searching for the medicine that I know you never touched. Was it because of one Power or another?" She paused, thinking. "Or was it because you bore a changer and it would not set you free?"

  There could be no answer from the dead, and at this time, Zazar had no desire to cast the bones and see any farther than this room and this moment.

  Kazi broke the silence timidly. "Is not named. The baby—"

  That was true; a girl must be mother-named, for custom is strong. Yet those mother lips would never shape any sound again.

  "Then I will name her," Zazar stated, almost as if she expected to be denied.

  "Ashenkin she is, and bane of she who bore her she was. She is named Ashen

  Deathdaugh-ter!"

  Kazi uttered a squeal of protest. "Say it not! Say it not!"

  "She will be Ashen, and for the rest, forget it now, Kazi."

  Mud and bramble-slash had dimmed the bravery of the royal surcoats the soldiers wore, but even in twilight, it was possible to see the tufts of feathers each man wore in his helm socket, and the design of the Yew badge—a circle of yew leaves surmounted by a bow—that each bore upon breast and back. Most strode away from the dead horse to cluster together, awaiting orders. One man, the best tracker among them, was half crouched reading sign on the muddied ground.

  "They was headed there, m'lord." He nodded toward the bank of the canal-river.

  "Tracks still fresh. We be close behind them, right enough. I think they carried som-mat. Their steps is heavier than they should be."

  Lord Lackel of the House Troops of Her Gracious Ladyship the Queen, the man who stood a little apart, his hands curved into fists resting on his hips, moved now.

  "Hasard, the old wolf, has run his last trail—or has he? Down to the bank with you," he told the tracker. "See what signs lie for the reading there. Hasard did not have much time." Now a bear's snarl showed beneath the shadow of his helm.

  "Yet with that twisty one, who can tell?"

  It was plain that he spoke more to himself than to those he commanded, and there was a kind of wary admiration in his last tone.

  Someone shouted from the waterside. The men fell into order, steel out. As driven as their prey might be, no man would go defenseless to this meeting.

  Their quarry might not be too exhausted to defend themselves.

  The Yew soldiers passed by the deep gouge left by the prow of a boat to concentrate on something else, a limp body that lay face down, arms rising and falling with the swish of the current. An arrow jutted tall and deadly from between its shoulders. No arrow of theirs, they knew by the blue bandings of its fletching. Ash color. As one, they drew toward each other, eyes alert to any change in their surroundings. At least the wind had dropped so that the shrubs and tree branches had ceased their wild dance. The man who reached the body first hooked hands in the sword belt and with an effort, drew the corpse fully ashore. He did not turn it over at once, being far more interested in the arrow.

  "Well?" demanded the officer. "Which other of the squads has outrun us?"

  "None of ours, m'lord." The tracker
flicked the stiff shaft of the arrow with his finger. 'This fellow was unlucky. He missed the big fight." The man thought for a moment. "That, or else…"

  "Do you know him?" Lord Lackel leaned closer now.

  "Can't tell, m'lord."

  It took the tracker and one of the soldiers to roll the body over and expose the muddied face to the light.

  "Not known to me, m'lord. Teh. He was just a younker. But look you here." He used an end of water-heavy cloth to wipe away the concealing mud from a buckle that supported a quiver sling. The buckle bore a distinctive leaf inscribed upon it. "Now that there we has seen before."

  "Ash!" Lackel pulled at his dripping beard. "But then, why dead from a comrade's hand?"

  The tracker shrugged. 'True, this be Ashen-branded. I understand it not. Maybe someone has stole Ash arrows, used 'em to throw us off." He and his fellow had ceased to keep a hold on the body, and now something hidden beneath the current seized upon the corpse with force enough to put both men into a panic and send them clawing their way back up the bank.