Andre Norton - Oak, Yew, Ash & Rowan 2 - Knight Or Knave

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Knight or Knave by

Andre Norton and Sasha

Miller

Prologue

In the Cave of the Weavers, the ancient ones toiled over their

work, adding first a dusty green strand, then a blue one, then

another of brighter green, then gold ones, as their brown old

hands twinkled deftly. Each addition sank into the Web

Everlasting even before they had let go of it, though the pattern

was not yet clear.

The youngest of the Three touched a spot where the dusty

green and blue strands crossed. "Is it meet," she asked, "that we

blend two mortals in this way, with one doomed?"

"It is meet and altogether meet," replied the Eldest. "For look

you here."

She pointed to a design in the Web that was beginning to take

shape farther along in the sheet of Time. In form and fashion

this design resembled a heavy snowstorm and in it moved fell

shapes, each more terrifying than the last. The Youngest

recoiled, more a movement of the head than of the body.

"Is that what they will have to face?" she said.

"All in due time, Sister," said the middle one placidly. "We

have yet to reach that point, for we have come to a spot where

things must change."

"And we do not know yet what that change will be," said the

Eldest. "The Web will tell us."

"Then this joining of the ill-omened might ward off the horror

that is to come?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps. Be patient. The Web is bound to tell us. It

always has, in its own time."

The Youngest returned her attention to the most recent work.

"Nothing has blended well in this spot," she said.

"We cannot be concerned with the affairs of mortals," the

Eldest said, adding another strand. "It is as it is, and as it will be.

Nothing will change that. The Web of Time is all that matters,

and if we paused to take pity on those whose lives are interwoven

in it, all would become a tangle never to be put straight again.

Do not speak of it again."

The Youngest bowed her head in acceptance. But yet, she kept

returning ever to the just-added threads, touching them with her

brown and wrinkled fingers. Indeed, this was a tangle but even

as she looked, it melted and became part of the whole.

One of the life-threads, the dusty green one, frayed and

snapped. Carefully, the Youngest clipped it, leaving the fragment

that, under her hand, grew and began to change and solidify the

pattern the Three had begun. Unexpectedly, as the other two

Weavers looked over the Youngest's shoulders, the brighter green

thread took up the pattern left off by the dimmer shaded one. It

looked strong and durable from that point, with spots left rough

to the touch.

"Ah, yes," said the middle Sister. "That was what was needed.

Now we can go on."

And as always, the living continued to believe that they were

free to make decisions, to act as they believed fit, even as their

threads passed through the fingers of the Weavers.

The Youngest glanced back along what had been completed.

Yes, there were recorded lives and deaths, Kingdoms' passing.

And she knew that the words of the Eldest were true. There could

be no mercy, no pity from those who held the threads. It would

be folly—and worse, it would ruin the work.

Interested, she watched while the pattern re-formed to

accommodate the newly added strands. She recognized what was

taking place. A vigorous new strand, not yet the Changer, but

close, began to emerge, affecting all it touched. So that was what

had been working its way to the surface. All was well. Renewed

and refreshed, she reached out and took up the work on the Web

Everlasting once more.

One

In the capital city of Rendelsham, a steady drizzle had been

fall-ing for days, keeping all inside whose duties did not require

that they venture out. Also it was unseasonably cold. Servants

kept fireplaces stoked and the damp, green wood they were

forced to use—all the seasoned having been used during the

winter—sent clouds of smoke over the city. Inside houses where

chimneys were not efficient, a similar veil of smoke hung in the

air, making people cough and sneeze as they huddled into warm

clothing they had thought to put away until winter.

The forced idleness had its uses, however, for there seemed to

be no one at court who was not occupied with the problem of

what to do with Ashen, daughter of the late King Boroth, newly

come to Rendel from the Bale-Bog where she had spent most of

her life. This was an illegitimate daughter, to be sure, but one

possessing a strong claim to the throne, perhaps enough to

topple the new King, Florian, if only the lady herself had been of

a mind to undertake such a thing.

Thus, in many residences this topic was the subject of much

conjecture, and prominent among them were the households of

the Dowager Queen Ysa, who consulted frequently with Lord

Royance,

Head of the Council of Regents, and Count Harous, now

officially the Lord Marshal of Rendel, who consulted with no one.

Rather, he was given to action and it was obvious that the action

upon which he was now embarked was the wooing of Lady Ashen

herself.

This day Lady Marcala of Valvager—in reality, Marfey, Queen

of Spies—had come seeking audience with the Queen, who

granted it willingly. "Welcome!" she said when Marcala came

into her privy chamber. She turned to her ladies. "Bring heated

wine and spice cakes, and then leave us."

Marcala let Lady Ingrid take her rain-dewed cloak to hang

near the fire where it might dry. She approached the fireplace

gratefully, rubbing her hands. "Even with gloves lined with

rabbit fur the cold seeps through and pinches my fingers," she

said. "I've forgotten the last time I saw sunlight."

"I welcome your presence, but I know the errand must have

been urgent to bring you all the way from Cragden Keep. Come,

take a seat by the fire. You'll soon be warm enough."

Lady Ingrid hurried in with the flagon of wine and two

goblets, and a plate of cakes on a tray. Marcala poured for both

herself and the Dowager and waited until Ingrid had left again

before taking up her tale.

"If I could draw upon the heat inside me, I would not need a

cloak," the younger woman said, a bitter note in her voice. She

drew up the low chair the Dowager indicated and sat down with

the air of one on intimate terms with the actual ruler of Rendel.

"Instead, I am left to molder in Cragden, while Harous dallies

with Ashen here in the city."

"Surely our good Count is not behaving improperly."

"As to that, I do not know. But, to be fair, Ashen lived for

many years in the Bog, and defended herself from what

threatened from any quarter. Surely she is not so bedazzled that

she would yield to Harous's blandishments before marriage for

all that he was the one who rescued her and brought her here."

Ysa looked keenly at her noblewoman, her own creation, the

supreme spy she had set to be her human eyes and ears in the

household of one who might be a threat or a danger to her plans.

She did not miss the reference to marriage, nor did she miss

the unmistakable resentment in Marcala's voice. This

resentment, Ysa knew, came from jealousy—and this jealousy

came from the spell Ysa had herself performed to make sure

Marcala's interest focused on Harous. With Marcala enthralled

by Harous, Ysa knew she could keep her Queen of Spies under

her complete control, first advancing and then retracting her

approval regarding Harous. Also, she had seen to it that Harous

was in love with Marcala, according to the spell. His ambition,

however, was not subject to any such weakness as matters of the

heart and therein lay the weakness in this scheme. Ysa thought

again about what Marcala had said.

"But you have yielded to the Marshal," the Dowager

remarked, trying to keep her tone neutral. She was rewarded by

seeing Marcala blush to the roots of her hair.

"He has visited my apartment on occasion. It seemed the

appropriate step to take," she said defensively.

"To what effect?"

"He says he loves me. When we are in private he acts like he

does. But he is wooing Ashen. And he says he is making good

progress."

Ysa kept herself from frowning with an effort. She had enough

to worry about concerning King Florian and his latest escapade,

without this added. It was all well and good for Harous to pay

suit to Ashen, as long as the wench stayed aloof. But if she

seemed to be yielding—No, it would not do at all.

"Have you spoken to Lady Ashen?" Ysa said.

"I have not. Though Harous has given me no direct orders, my

feeling is that he wants me to stay away from his residence here

in the city, where he has installed her. And so I have had no

opportunity to visit the lady. Besides, I do not think that she

would confide in me." Marcala's lips twisted. "A Princess—so

much better than I am. Bog-Princess, that's all she is."

Ysa had to bite her own lips to keep from laughing out loud.

Bog-Princess, indeed! And yet, she understood. "It is only natural

that you would not be able to summon up much warmth toward

her. After all, she is standing in your way."

"If you could but find someone else, another nobleman—"

"Do you know of anyone suitable?" Ysa sipped at her wine,

keenly aware that Marcala was not telling everything that was on

her mind. It was a delicate problem. Ashen, last known heir of

the House of Ash, in ancient times the cradle of Kings, and the

late King Boroth's acknowledged bastard daughter at that, had

become much more than an annoying Bog-brat or even, in

Marcala's amusing phrase, an annoying Bog-Princess.

Unmarried, she was the center of a political faction opposed to

King Florian, whether she willed it or not, and a temptation to

every hedge-knight eager to improve his station in life. Too lofty

a marriage and she was a danger to Florian and even to his heir,

when he should have one. Too base a marriage, and she was still

a danger, because of those who would become angered at the

insult and glad to have this matter as an excuse for opposition to

the Crown.

She wondered if the rumors about Rannore, the new Rowan

heiress since Laherne had died, were true. Well, time would tell if

there was going to be another heir to dispute Ashen's claim.

"Perhaps I could think of a suitable candidate," Marcala said.

She set the empty goblet on the tray and did not move to refill it.

"But my strong feeling is that Ashen will marry no one at all, if

she does not want to. She has not been trained to set aside

personal feelings, the way she would have had she been brought

up properly."

"And what do you suggest?"

"Ask her."

Now the Dowager raised one eyebrow. This was something

she had not anticipated having to endure—bringing the bastard

child of her late husband into her very home, speaking to her

face to face. She had not laid eyes on the girl since that awful day

when the King was dying. Royance had brought her into the very

death chamber, giving Ysa a chance to throw her support to this

sturdy Ash twig rather than the spindly, gawky, unworthy

product of her union with Boroth.

And now, this new King, Florian, was creating his own share

of personal mischief with Rannore. Her cousin Laherne had died

in childbirth, so the story went, only a few months after a visit to

Rendelsham. The gossip was that Florian was responsible and

also that the aged Erft's passing had been hurried along because

of the shame. His younger brother Wittern, a contemporary and

friend of Royance, now governed in his place. Ysa had thought to

address this matter today, rather than the question of Ashen and

a potential marriage. The Dowager sighed. One unpleasantness

versus another. Both must be dealt with, but each in its time.

Marcala was here present, and Rannore and her guardian,

Wittern of Rowan, had not yet arrived at the city.

"Send for Ashen," Ysa said. "Tell a messenger to go and fetch

her while you wait with me."

Marcala inclined her head. "Yes, Madame." Then she arose

and went to do the Dowager's bidding.

Obern flexed his arm, the one that had been broken in a battle

with giant birds atop a cliff at the edge of the Bale-Bog. It was

whole and well again, though it ached a little in the damp

weather, and this day he wanted nothing more than to go back

home. He missed his Sea-Rover companions, missed the freedom

of being able to go out in a ship where the sea air blew away the

miasma of city life.

That, however, would be as Count Harous pleased. For the

moment at least, Count Harous pleased to keep Obern as his

"guest" and Obern still did not know why.

Once in a great while, since the doctor had decreed that he no

longer needed to keep his arm in a sling, Obern had been allowed

to go out on a patrol. As long as it did not involve ranging a great

distance from Cragden Keep or actual skirmishing with the

Bog-men, who still kept up their campaign of raids on honest

Rendelian farmers, he could ride with the soldiers as he pleased.

Even that break in the routine was denied to him now, however,

since he and Ashen had been removed to Rendelsham and

Harous's great house at the foot of the rise where the castle

perched.

Still, this part of his sojourn had been interesting. Before now,

he had never really learned to handle a horse, and now he was

counted more than adequate. He had never been among a group

of land nobles, so that he could observe their ways. He had never

before attended a royal funeral, or a coronation, when the new

King Florian was crowned.

Obern studied Florian appraisingly. So this was the one who

had come, as the report had it, to his father, Snolli, with his little

private treaty paper in his hand. Obern almost laughed, but that

would have interrupted the ceremony. Oh, the King looked good

enough stripped to the waist for the anointing but that was

merely because he had not yet begun to show the effects of

dissipation. He could have had the nicely muscled body of youth,

but King Boroth, his father, had gone to fat in his later years and

this stripling looked fair to follow. Obem and Ashen, at the

insistence of Count Harous, stayed well back in the crowd.

Ashen's presence, so Harous said, could be a disruption but it

would also have been an unthinkable discourtesy for her not to

attend. And as for Obem, well, he was practically highborn

himself, so his presence was almost as mandatory as hers.

Obern liked standing next to Ashen in the mass of people

filling the nave of the Fane of the Glowing. He liked putting

himself between her and the possibility of her being jostled by a

rude stranger. Most of all he liked looking at her, at the beauty of

her face and form, and her silver-gilt hair falling like pure

treasure down her back.

He liked also those rare times when they walked together

through the grounds of Rendelsham Castle, and when they

passed the high lords going about their business. One he

recognized, Lord Royance of Grattenbor, the Head of the Council

of Regents, who had questioned him in the Hall at Harous's

residence the night the old King died. Others Ashen pointed out

to him—Gattor of Bilth; Valk of Mimon; Jakar of Vacaster; Liffen

of Lerkland and another, whom Ashen had not met that

memorable evening, Wittem of Rowan, lately come to the

guardianship of that high House. Of those Obem formed no

particular opinion one way or the other except to acknowledge

that Lord Royance seemed an able, experienced, and stoutly

honest man.

The city of Rendelsham interested Obern because of its

strangeness. He was used to the Sea-Rovers' way of life, and a

much more casual—one might even say cruder—approach to city

building. Here, instead of a cluster of small, sturdy huts, all was

whitewashed stone, with carvings and decorations in profusion,

and at every corner of the rooftops fabulous creatures rendered

so lifelike that they seemed ready to leap down upon the unwary

passerby beneath. From the mouths of these creatures the

rainwater poured into the streets, away from the walls where it

might cause damage. It seemed an ingenious arrangement.

Together he and Ashen made a small pilgrimage to the

forecourt of the Great Fane of the Glowing, to view the four great

trees that represented the Four Great Houses of Rendel. A

courteous priest, passing by, informed them of the history, of

how Rowan was rallying and even Ash was making a miraculous

revival, with new growth crowding through the dead old twigs.

Oak still continued a slow, steady decline, however, and Yew

throve, as always. Obern gave the priest a coin, one he had won

at gambling, and the grateful fellow then took them inside and

showed them the interior wonders, even to the three mysterious

windows, hidden away where casual visitors might not notice.

One window was shrouded from view by a curtain that, the

priest informed them, no one touched on fear of death by Her

Majesty's orders. Another showed a Bale-Bog pool, with

something just beginning to break the surface. But Ashen gazed

longest on the third, a depiction, the priest said, of the Web of

Destiny.

"They move," she said, as if to herself. "The hands of the

Weavers move."

But Obern could not see it.

These pleasant excursions had been cut short, however, with

the arrival of the wet, cold weather. Obern was used to a chilly

climate, but this was unnatural, occurring as it did in the middle

of the summer. Gratefully he accepted a fur-lined tunic and cloak

from the stores of clothing at Harous's residence, and stayed

inside as much as his free spirit could bear. He began wearing a

cap indoors, the way the Rendelians did, and learned that it, too,

contributed to keeping him warm.

Ashen was of a similar mind to him, and fretted when she was

kept too long indoors. And so they were drawn together even

more than might have been their usual wont, because of the

discovery of her high birth and the enormous changes it would

be bound to bring to her life. And sometimes they talked about

it.

On this day, Lady Marcala had come to Rendelsham from

Crag-den Keep, visiting the Dowager Ysa. Marcala never entered

Har-ous's town house, but nevertheless Ashen took the

opportunity to hide in Obern's quarters while she was in the city.

"I never desired any of this," she told him as they sat close to a

fire, sharing a hot drink that Harous's chef had created out of

the juice of pressed apples and an assortment of sweet spices.

"And if I could, I would let it pass me by. My guardian and

Protector, Zazar, predicted that I would have a different road to

walk, but I never dreamed it would be so complicated."

"You do look far different from the first time I saw you."

Obern smiled. "Though those hide breeches—"

"Lupper skin."

"Yes, lupper-skin breeches—they looked much more practical

for the life you were leading then."

"You are somewhat changed, yourself."

He glanced down at the clothing he was wearing—doublet and

tunic and a warm cloak over all, with no cross-gaitered hose or

fur vest heavy enough to stop a dagger. He straightened the

velvet cap on his head. "They took away my old garb. Said it

made me stand out as an Outlander."

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