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

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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.
"Look you!" one of the other men called sharply. The dusk was growing thicker by the moment, but a
shroud of mist parted and they could all see at a distance the boat, caught in a tangle of drifting
vegetation. A body slid from the boat, into the water.
Lackel did not move toward this at once, for his thoughts were too bemused. An
Ash arrow for an Ash kill! It was not just the personal guards of the one he served that had been a part
of the hunt, but those of the woman's own Family as well. Rough justice indeed, unstoppable, brought
even to this backwater. Brave
Hasard, braver than any other he had ever known. He touched the edge of his helm as if he would salute
an overlord, or at least a worthy enemy. Now he was chilled by more than the wind. She who had
dispatched him on this wild mission was said to have her own methods of spying. And it was also
whispered that some who served her did not wear human aspect. But such thoughts were best kept to
one's self…
Out in the stream, the boat dipped and dragged as if some weight had attached itself to its stern. Then the
water about it was whipped to a frenzy of splashes, and those on the bank retreated. The reports of what
might be encountered deep in the Bale-Bog were bloodily graphic. They saw a man's hand slip from the
rough wood as a second body was dragged from the boat and under the water. Not all had fallen to
arrows, Ash or otherwise.
"Lord! There by the bow!"
They had no torch lit, but the pale glow that hung above the boat, looking like some corpse-light of its
own, revealed the scene clearly enough. Lackel did not see a woman's body, and reasoned that she, less
strong than a man and weakened further by the child she bore, had already perished and been dragged
away by the creature that was even now devouring the corpses of two soldiers who had accompanied
her.
He laughed and raised his hand in mock salute to the other shore. "So, Bog-folk, you have served our
purposes," he said softly. "Ready not yourself, for we are not warring on you, nor are we on the hunt
today. Indeed, this night we have been on a mission that you seem to have finished for us. And for that,
we give you thanks."
His men were retreating. Each walked backward, steel showing in hopes it could be seen by whatever
might emerge from the deeps to drag them down. They were as white-eyed as horses forced into battle
against their will.
He raised his voice. "Enough! It is plain that the trail has reached its end and that whoever wrought this
has served our purpose."
Still, he could not rid his mind of that Ash arrow planted in Ash flesh. The
Bog-folk were one thing, but the arrow another. He knew, if his men did not, that no commander from
one House would countenance the use of another House's badge or distinctive arrows, not even to throw
a pursuer off a scent.
They played deep games at court, and there had been enough rumors abroad these past few days about
so-called hunting parties that were better armed for raiding. The Ashenkin might well have a reason for
such a split in their forces.
A King's son held in secret—whether born of a Queen or of a lesser mother—now that could be a rare
prize, especially for a waning House.
If so, their plan had ended at the Bog border, as had that of his own troop. He could make this report in
all truth, and he believed that she who was his liege-lady would find it to her liking.
Joal, headman of the Bog-folk, stood scowling barely inside the doorway of
Zazar's dwelling. His face twisted with a grimace of distaste at the body that still lay on the floor.
"Outlander! Send it to pools. Feed silent ones." He was a short, misshapen man whose wiry thicket of
graying hair was knotted up with the finger-bones of at least five enemies. Others of the Bog-folk
crowded behind him, but none wanted any more than he to cross that threshold.
"Well enough, Joal," Zazar said indifferently. "Follow custom."
Joal still lingered at the threshold. "There be smell of blood—birth blood. Did
Outlander bear living child? Give it to us!"
Zazar's level gaze caught and held the chief's eyes. "I bide by my trade as you do by yours, Joal." She
held up a bundle wrapped in a reed weaving. "This is my named daughter, Ashen. By my craft, I have the
right to claim her."
"Already you have one to learn from you, Wysen-wyf." Joal jerked his grimy thumb in Kazi's direction.
"That be custom also. Who says you need another?"
"Yes, I have one of your people," she returned calmly. "One who you denied for her ill-healed, crooked
leg and was spared by me when no one wanted her and it was thought death would find her soon
enough. But this child is my chosen daughter, born through my skills. Ashen she is to me, no matter what
blood flows within her. And further, the Lady of Death herself witnessed the mother-naming!"
She smiled grimly. "You can claim only what is allowed, and that you know well."
Joal drew back a step, crowding those behind him. Za-zar knew she had won. The headman could judge
the worth of an ordinary man, and of most women, but Zazar was alone, unique, and no one but she
knew her full name or who had birthed her.
It was never well to deal with the unknown, and this caution of theirs she depended upon when having
converse with the Bog-folk.
"Take dead, leave squaller-brat," Joal said finally. Two of his followers stepped forward and bundled the
dead woman's slight body in the stained mats and departed.
Zazar was well aware that Joal was scowling. She sniffed in disdain. Joal and his kind—she did not need
any nudge of fear to be wary of them. But the tricks of Outlanders? Yes. She must send forth her
messengers and learn what this unexpected turn of events might mean to her.
Two
Ashen's earliest memory, at the age of four, was of the same thing she was doing just now, as a big girl at
the age of eight—stirring the kettle filled with mol-lusk glue, careful not to let the mixture come to a boil.
It had to stay at a low simmer; otherwise it would separate and be ruined. Everyone, including the people
in the village, used the noxious stuff to repair the matched roofs of their huts. Their own roof—hers and
Zazar's—had started to leak again, so they couldn't put off tending it any longer. And Kazi's roof, too, of
course. She lived there as well. Ashen found it easy to forget Kazi, as Kazi found it easy to ignore Ashen.
They just didn't like each other, though Ashen had no idea why.
She gave the mixture another deep stir, bringing up the mollusk shells from the bottom and picking out
those she could snag, using a twig lest she burn her fingers. She knew, from listening, that this had once
been Kazi's job, but by now, the old woman had turned it over entirely to Ashen, at least when Zazar
wasn't around, or when it was just dull routine. At critical points, Kazi took over and claimed full credit
as well. Ashen wished she had someone else, smaller and easy for her to defeat, to whom she could give
the task in turn, but there was nobody. Well, maybe there could have been, but the creatures she called
the
Squeakers seldom came around these days.
She had never been able to really see the Squeakers except with occasional sidelong glances, but she
could certainly hear them when in the night they came to visit Zazar. They squeaked and cluttered, and
sometimes purred. Ashen thought they must be very nice little creatures, and she longed to be able to
hold one and stroke it. Such a luxury, however, had been denied her so far. There was just too much
work to do.
Also, since the thunder-star had streaked toward the north and landed with an impact that shook the
earth even as far as the Bog and lit up the sky, the
Squeakers' visits had become less frequent. All of the grown-ups now went around with worried
expressions, especially when one of the fire- mountains awoke and streaked the sky with spark-filled
dark clouds. All this had no great effect on
Ashen, however, nor did it diminish in the slightest the number of ever- present chores that had to be
done.
The roof eternally needed repair so they could at least sleep without being drenched by the frequent
rains. Just getting in enough food to feed themselves for more than a day occupied much of the rest of
their time. In this they were not any different from the people of the village located down the small hillside
from Zazar's hut, close by one of the deep pools that made up most of the
Bog-land. This pool was one of the rare ones, though, different from the others, because the water
bubbled up from underneath, and was relatively fresh. Other pools held a stagnant, slime-covered, smelly
liquid that people avoided as much as they could when they went out food-gathering. Because she had
no freshwater pool near her dwelling, Zazar preferred to catch rainwater in her big pot for their use in
drinking, cooking, and bathing. When she was using the pot for other things—such as boiling up the nasty
glue, or making potions, or cooking a large mess of the stew that was their usual food—they had to rely
on the village pool like everyone else did. Ashen was glad that this duty had not fallen to her. Even Kazi
could not make her stir the pot and go down to the pool carrying water jars at the same time.
Ashen was always uncomfortable when she ventured into the village. She knew that she was different
from the inhabitants and knew also that the villagers were uneasy with her presence. Why she was
different from everybody else, she did not know or understand. It was a fact, however, and one she had
to acknowledge.
For that matter, Zazar herself was different both from the villagers and from
Ashen. She had told Ashen about it, a little, once in a rare mood when she had drunk a little too much of
a certain potion Ashen was strictly forbidden to touch. Zazar claimed she had existed many more
lifetimes than Bog- folk had and that she would be here long after they were gone. And further, she
claimed that when she did get old and a young, vigorous Wysen-wyf was called, she would bring it forth
from her own body, alone and without help. Impossibly, she claimed that the Bog-folk knew all about it.
This, Ashen thought, should surely have turned the Bog-folk against Zazar forever if—and it was a big
if—the stories were true.
But somehow, the Bog-people accepted Zazar even as they rejected Ashen. Perhaps it was because of
the brews Zazar could concoct, the healing mixtures, the herb-rich salves that kept away the worst of the
stinging insects that tormented everyone in the Bog. Even Joal called Zazar "Wysen-wyf," and Ashen had
heard the grudging respect in his voice.
"How goes it?" Kazi asked from behind her. Ashen jumped, startled.
"I think it is nearly done," she said. "You know that better than I do. It's at the point where you should
tend it now." She smiled sweetly, knowing that the mixture needed at least another full hour of stirring but
not willing to let this chance for release pass. "Zazar wouldn't be pleased if it got ruined."
Kazi scowled, but took the stirring-stick. Ashen was free now to go and occupy herself with more
agreeable tasks.
First, she had to change her clothes. When she worked at the kettle, she wore an old tattered shift made
of the remnants of a woven reed- fluff blanket so that any splashes would not harm her, or ruin the
lupper-skin garments Zazar had painstakingly made for her.
These garments were, she knew, finer than those worn by the villagers, having been made only from
hides taken from very young luppers, then tanned by Zazar's art to a suppleness that rivaled traders'
cloth. She slipped out of the shift and wriggled into the leggings. Still bare to the waist, she fastened on
the armor, made from small squares of turtle shell, that covered her legs from ankle to knee. It was
scarred in several places by the fangs of serpents, thwarted in their attempts to sting her. Then she tied up
her buskins and carefully cross-gaitered the entire arrangement so that it fit snugly and would not hamper
her movements. She noted that the armor was almost too short to reach her knees; she had been growing
again. She and Zazar would have to add another strip of shell pieces to the top very soon.
She slipped the lupper-skin tunic over her head, and then she was dressed. She debated on whether to
add an over-tunic the way Zazar was always telling her to do, and decided against it. The days were not
yet cool enough to make it necessary to wear the outer garment. She did, however, slip a shell- bladed
knife into the top of her leg armor. From a shelf she took down a wooden jar filled with the salve that
repelled the worst of the biting insects of the Bog and rubbed it into her skin. Once, she had forgotten
and had been stung so severely that she had been sick for several days. She shook another jar, the one
that held trade-pearls, and realized there was only a single pearl left in it. So that was where Zazar had
gone. When she went to deal with the Traders, she always took all the pearls but one, left for luck and to
bring more to the jar.
Ashen's errand was now plain. She picked up a woven basket and escaped out the back way. Nobody
could fault her for going pearl- hunting. Also, she might gather a few of whatever foodstuffs came to
hand. Nobody had to know that she was, in reality, just getting away from the ever-present work, the
chores, and especially Kazi.
Ashen had not been allowed to run wild. There were lessons, sometimes given painfully, which she had
absorbed over the years. After all, Zazar had claimed her as an apprentice. And to that learning, Ashen
had taken as those in a lean time welcome a feast.
Learning, however, had early awakened her curiosity. And above all, she wanted to know why Zazar
went alone, and where, journeying over the wilder parts of the
Bog as if she had some secret goal. Not all of her travels involved the Traders.
Ashen decided that perhaps, daringly, she would expand her borders today, go just a little way beyond
the limits Zazar had set on where she could explore safely.
"There are places you may not yet approach," Zazar always told her. "When you are old enough, I will
personally take you to them so that you may learn more of who you are, and what you are, and what you
must be. Until then, be patient."
摘要：

TotheKingADaughterbyAndreNortonandSashaMillerPrologueItisonlytobeexpectedthatallalongtheroadsknowntotravelersthereareshrines,somemoss-grownandolderthanthelastthreedynastiesofrulers.Therearealsothefanes—thecathedrals—andthelesserchurchesandchapelsineveryvillageandtown.AnddoesnottheGreatFaneoftheGlowi...

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