Scent of Magic Read Online Free PDF

Had Wubric really presented that overawing aspect to his subjects or was that his fancied idea of himself?
    Mahart continued to stare into the mirror. One could see how she appeared—to herself at least. Did she appear with the same nonentity to others? Take away her position here and who would bow and curtsey, ply her with shallow compliments?
    She rubbed her hand across her forehead wonderingly. Never before this morning had she asked so many such questions of herself. It was as if her dream—though it might not have freed her body—had lit a candle cluster in a dusky part of her mind.
    She leaned over once again to the brazier to see if shecould catch any lingering trace of that fragrance just as a discreet knock on her door announced that she no longer had her privacy and would not for the rest of this long day.
    It was Julta, of course, her noiseless glide in contrast to her stiff-held back—Julta, who was able to express her reaction to anything by a down curve of lip or a lift of eyebrow. But Zuta had said that the maid was as close-mouthed among the servants as she was with her mistress; and she was quiet, deft, and sometimes seemed to fade into the background as if she had stepped into one of the many time-faded tapestries.
    She placed the silver tray she carried on the dressing table and poured from its matching pot the morning infusion of herbs supposed to enliven one for the day.
    “Your Grace rested well?”
    “As ever, Julta.”
    “There is a message from His Highness. He wishes your presence in his cabinet before Second Bell.”
    “Thank you,” Mahart said as she sipped the tea. Well, this day was one which was beginning surprisingly. She could count on her fingers the number of times her father had ever summoned her to that chamber which was the heart of his own cramped life. “I will wear the vine dress, Julta.”
    The maid had already turned to the tall wardrobe. The vine dress—of a leaf green with its embroidered borders of silver vines—always gave Mahart confidence. And today there was something about its freshness which warred with the dark age of the room and reminded her of the open field and its gems of flowers.
    She suffered the pinning and pulling of her hair into the new style suggested by Zuta—divided into two braids which were then coiled one over each ear to be anchored with fine silver nets, the pins holding such sometimes a threat to one's scalp. The rest of the ritual of washing and dressing continued as usual—Julta as closemouthed as always, leaving Mahart to her scrambling of thoughts.

    What had she done lately which might have actually stirred her father into not only remembering he had a daughter but summoning her at this hour for speech? But her conscience was clear enough. So it was not some misconduct of the past but some new regulation of the future that she was facing.
    As she selected from the jewel casket Julta held open the simple chain of silver leaves which she always wore with this gown there was a second knock at the door. Mahart was allowed to fasten the necklace for herself as Julta went to let in Zuta—though it was early for the lady-companion to appear.
    As usual Mahart immediately felt drab. Zuta's gown outlined her form as closely as if she wore no chemise beneath. Its dark blue satin, the same shade as her heavy-lidded eyes, was not, however, cut as low at the bodice as those of the ladies who attended Saylana appeared to find in fashion, and her hair had been all but completely hidden by a gold-patterned baglike headdress.
    She curtseyed and rose smiling.
    “I see I chose well, Your Grace. You arose refreshed this morning.” She glanced from Mahart to the brazier.
    “True,” Mahart agreed, “it was all you promised, Zuta. Surely this Herbmistress has great knowledge. I wish,” before she thought (and why did she suddenly believe that this was a thought she did not wish to share?) “that I might visit this famous shop for myself.”
    With a