A few strides took Denoriel to the far wall where he skirted a heavy wardrobe and a chair. The door was open as it had been. Half in, half out of the room, he paused and listened. The guard/manservant was asleep as deeply as when he entered; still, it seemed to Denoriel that he did not breathe again until he was out in the corridor. There he paused. The boy was safe and well, but the feeling that something ill was brooding all around was even more intense.
What had he proved, Denoriel wondered. Harry was safe in his bed, but someone else could do just what he had done with a far less innocent purpose. He thought of searching the area for strangers and then realized how very silly such a plan was. For one thing, that was just asking to be caught. For another, how would he know who was a stranger and who belonged in the castle? He had no roster of all of the servants, nor of the noble guests who might be staying at Norfolk's invitation.
Across the corridor was a door. Denoriel went and listened. Silence. He tried the latch. The door was not locked. He opened it, listened again, then slipped inside, leaving the door barely ajar. He would watch. If anyone tried to enter FitzRoy's apartment he would . . . what? Denoriel sighed. What could he do without betraying his own presence?
Eventually the answer came to him and Denoriel sighed again. Magic was very hard to do in the mortal world and he was already depleted by having changed his clothing to black. Still, the spell he needed, the Don't-see-me spell, was very simple and required very little power. Telling himself to listen all the more carefully, he closed his physical eyes and began to look around with inner sight.
The ability was not common to the Sidhe; when as a child he described it to one of the Magus Majors, the magus wanted to take him as an apprentice. He had refused because he wanted to be a warrior, an armored knight, like the father who had died fighting the Unseleighe . . . Denoriel's lips twisted. Now he was a nursemaid. Or, perhaps not; the very air seemed heavy with threat.
To Denoriel's surprise he could "see" a very faint palely glowing haze. There was power in the mortal world, it seemed. He mentally shook his head at himself. Of course there was power in the mortal world; there were mortal mages and more humans than they themselves knew were born with Talent. With his inner sight, Denoriel stared at the haze of power, but it seemed so dispersed as to be useless. No, not entirely. There was a bright thread in the glow for which Denoriel "reached." It was thinner than a spider's web, but when he "caught" it, he gasped with shock.
It was as if the power that smoothly filled Underhill, as the spirits in good wine blended perfectly in the body of the liquid and could not be separately tasted, had been distilled into a thin but powerful stream of brandy, almost pure spirits. It burned along the power channels in his body, making him aware of them as he never was in Underhill, but his weariness dissipated and he was prepared to watch for the rest of the night without doubting his alertness.
He even hoped for a few moments that the replenishment would remove the sense of dread that hung about him, thinking that the feeling of sharp anxiety and heavy threat was a result of the iron in his surroundings. Far from relief, he felt even more anxious. Something was coming, something evil.
It did not come that night, however. No assassin slipped down the dark corridor. No peak of warning hinted at anyone with ill intent entering through a window as he had. When false dawn passed and the sky began to lighten again, Denoriel made ready to slip from the room and make his way out of the building. Although he was not familiar with the morning activities, he assumed no one would attack the boy for the next few hours. Too many servants would be in and out, bringing water for washing and breakfast and generally making ready for the day. Then FitzRoy would be in the schoolroom with the others.
His suppositions soon became fact. Doors began to open and shut on the floor above, steps sounded on the tower stairs, there were low voices giving greetings, issuing orders. Denoriel made sure the corridor was empty, invoked the Don't-see-me spell, which barely drew on the power he had taken in, walked calmly down the main staircase, and waited near the doors for the guards to open them. When they did, to allow a clerk or some upper servant to enter, Denoriel stepped out.
During the long dark hours, he had considered remaining with FitzRoy but he had finally decided the attempt would be useless and might well be dangerous. He could not be close enough to Harry to protect him from an attack by a long-trusted servant, and if he could leap on the attacker in time he would have betrayed himself. Besides such an attack seemed utterly impossible. Henry Howard and Mary Howard would be there as would their servants; guards would be at the door. And, although he did not trust the feeling, his sense of threat was somehow . . . outside, not within.
The place where Harry might be alone was after nuncheon when the children were free for some hours of play. On any fair day, they all made for the garden. Denoriel did not know whether he hoped the boy would stay with his friends, in which case Denoriel thought no attack would be made and the tension he felt would continue, or would go by himself to the pond to sail his boat. If he did that and the guards saved themselves the walk to the pond by remaining at the gate, as they usually did, FitzRoy would be alone and vulnerable.
And the threat might not even be directed against FitzRoy, Denoriel thought, walking toward the garden that held the little pond. He felt it and felt it urgently, but perhaps that urgency was a signal that he should be elsewhere watching and warding. He ground his teeth with helplessness and anxiety and then suddenly realized that Aleneil might well have an answer by now. She had not sent any message, but it would be hard to reach him in the mortal world. He had several hours before FitzRoy would not be surrounded by friends, guards, and teachers; he would Gate to Llachar Lle.
That was not quite as easy as usual this early in the morning. Cartloads of supplies, meat, vegetables, milk, and cheese, were coming in from the surrounding farms. Messengers were leaving the castle. Bailiffs and other clerks were traveling toward it to make their reports to Norfolk who, Denoriel realized, must be in residence. Perhaps the threat was directed at Norfolk; he was a proud, hot-tempered man and had enemies in plenty. Denoriel could not guess why a threat to Norfolk should make him uneasy . . . All the more reason for him to speak to Aleneil.
He could not simply call Miralys as usual; he had to cross into the copse and find the elvensteed, and then they had to wait some time for the road to clear. When they reached the small wood that held the Gate to Llachar Lle, Denoriel almost cursed aloud. There was a seemingly endless train of horses and carriages following a most elegant hearse. Denoriel could do nothing but ride on past the wood; because the copse was so small, there was scarcely any reason to enter it—and if he did so and did not emerge, someone was sure to notice.
By the time Denoriel reached his apartment, he was utterly enraged. That Aleneil sprang to her feet and rushed to him as soon as he entered did not assuage his temper.
"The boy," she cried. "They are going to kill the boy."
"Kill!" Denoriel echoed. "Even the Unseleighe would not do that. Surely not Rhoslyn and Pasgen! Not even if Vidal Dhu ordered it."
"No, no. The Sidhe are not at fault," Aleneil said. "I hope Rhoslyn and Pasgen do not even know about FitzRoy . . . or if they do, they think him of no account. I do not know why he is of account."
"He will not come to rule?"
Aleneil shook her head. "I do not believe so, and if he should, it will be for only a few years and will not affect the rule of the red-haired child. There is a boy of his seeming who will rule, but . . . but he seems to be much younger than FitzRoy, although in a Seeing, time . . ."
She sighed and walked back into the living quarters to seat herself on the lounge. Denoriel followed and sank into one of the red-silk-covered adjoining chairs. There was no fire in the hearth; of course, there was no need for one, except as a decorative effect. The temperature everywhere in Llachar Lle was comfortable.
Denoriel wanted to let himself rest. The channels in his body still burned slightly an
d those that did not ached. But he could barely lie back in his chair although he knew there was no hurry; he could return to Windsor and arrive at any time he desired. Then he realized it was Aleneil, who usually was a pool of serenity, that was transmitting tension to him.
"You must save FitzRoy," she said.
"Of course I will," Denoriel assured her irritably. "I got into his apartment last night to make sure all was well with him—and it was. It was no changeling in his bed. Then I watched by his door to make sure no one entered or left. He is safe now with his friends and teachers."
"But the danger comes soon," Aleneil insisted, her face creased with anxiety. "Perhaps it is already there or on its way. I feel it pounding within me like the beat of my heart. I do not know why, but if FitzRoy dies, the red-haired child will never rule and we . . . we will go down the same path as Alhambra and Eldorado."
Denoriel repressed a shudder and stood up. Mwynwen had showed him those two, sad realms herself, and told him in great detail what had happened to them. He could not bear for such a fate to come upon his own home. "Comes from within? From among his friends? Those who are supposed to be his guardians? Comes from without?" His voice was higher than usual. Fear was so unaccustomed an emotion to him that he did not recognize it and covered it with anger.
"I don't know!" Aleneil wailed, and then, suddenly her breath was coming quick and short and she whispered, "Now! Go now, Denoriel."
Considering the emotions that had been generated in his chambers, Denoriel was not surprised to find Miralys waiting. He flung himself into the saddle and less than a quarter hour later out of it in the copse across from the magicked gate. There was no one in the road. Denoriel ran across, ran in through the gate . . . and realized that he had not willed his time of arrival to be the same as that when he left.
He heard a child's shrill cry of shock and fear, and he ran as he had never run before, tearing his sword from its scabbard, bellowing "Harry! Harry!"
He burst through the hedge that surrounded the pond and saw two men, one standing guard, the other leaning over the water, cursing, reaching for FitzRoy. The boy had apparently torn himself out of his attacker's grasp when it loosened at Denoriel's shout. But Denoriel could only hope FitzRoy could keep out of reach because the man standing guard had drawn his sword and struck at Denoriel's lighter blade.
Denoriel twisted his wrist, rolling his blade along and around his opponent's. He was trying to catch the other sword and tear it loose, but the ruse failed—in fact, he almost lost his own weapon as an icy, burning chill ran up his sword and his arm, spread across his chest. He was not as resistant to steel as he had believed; at least not when he actually touched it through his silver blade.
It was his opponent who saved him because he disengaged to feint high and thrust low. Denoriel parried, gasping, realizing that this was a more skilled swordsman than the noble-born dilettantes with whom he had practiced. Desperate not to touch the other's blade, Denoriel slashed right and left, advancing on his opponent, smashing his blade down on the attacker's arm with all his strength when the man tried to thrust through his wild swings. He was aware of movement behind the man he fenced with, aware that he could not prevail against two fighters of the same caliber.
"Run, Harry!" he shouted, wondering why the guards had not yet arrived.
With the boy's cry and his shout, they must have heard. From where they stood at the gate to the garden with the pond, they should have seen him fighting. Why did they not come? He needed the help. He was a fine swordsman, and he had fought men bearing steel before—but never alone, never two against one. And he had not repeatedly had to touch the steel as he parried. He was chilled and shaking. His guts knotted tighter and harder with each touch of his weapon against the other's and sickness clogged his throat, making it hard to breathe.
Then the other man cried out, not in pain but in shock and disgust. There was a thud and a splash. Denoriel's opponent was distracted—no more than a twitch of the head and a flick of the eyes to see what had happened behind him, but it was enough. Denoriel's blade slid up then pierced the man's sword arm, his silver blade carrying Denoriel's spell of pain and poor healing. The attacker howled and dropped his blade but made no attempt to retrieve it or to run, either of which Denoriel guessed he feared would have been fatal. Instead, he flung the poniard he held in his left hand at Denoriel's face.
Aware of the damage a scratch from the weapon could do—even a glancing blow could raise a dangerous welt—Denoriel staggered back. The attacker took the chance he had made for himself; Denoriel could feel him dart past and thrust at him but missed. He could not see well enough to stop him. From the sound, he had run for the garden gate. Then Denoriel knew the guards would not come, that they had somehow been disposed of. He started forward as FitzRoy shouted a warning, whipping his blade back and forth although his vision was so blurred he could not see the other man's weapon.
A shriek and a shock told Denoriel that his blade had connected and he drew and thrust, still without really seeing his opponent. An oath gave evidence of the accuracy of his strike, but his blade did not penetrate. He struck hard armor under the man's doublet and another terrible shock ran up his silver blade to his arm. Denoriel bit back his own scream and, completely blind with sickness, thrust again, lower, at the man's belly where he would not wear armor. The thrust did not connect, yet the man screamed again.
Through tear-filled eyes, to which vision was returning, Denoriel saw his opponent go down on one knee, body twisted to look behind. His sword was still up, guarding, but for that moment the man was nearly immobilized. Then a gleam of sunlight caught his moving blade and through blurred eyes Denoriel saw it. He stepped inside its reach, praying his silk tunic would protect him if he were hit, and thrust violently at the hand, not the sword.
One last shriek as the weapon dropped from the bleeding hand, the spell generating far more pain than the piercing blade. Then the attacker leapt to his feet and, limping badly, fled wide around Denoriel in the direction the other had taken. Denoriel sank to his knees on the muddy ground, gasping, cried out as his bare fingers touched the fallen sword.
It was pulled away. Denoriel's eyes widened; there must be another man. He tried to rise but could not; he could not even raise his sword. But his half blind eyes could see no man shape and no burning, killing stroke came. He heard the scrape of metal on the ground and the nausea induced by the continued nearness of the steel diminished.
"Here, quick, put on your hat."
FitzRoy's voice, breathless, anxious. Denoriel had not even realized he had lost the hat, and then he also realized that in his anxiety and haste, he had not invoked the illusions that hid his ears and the slit pupils of his eyes. He knew, with a sinking heart, that all disguise had failed, that his long hair, wildly disordered, must no longer conceal his ears. And the boy was so close, staring into his face, seeing his cat-pupilled eyes.
Despair all but overwhelmed him, but still Denoriel drew a gasping breath, trying to think of an explanation. Only FitzRoy showed no surprise or fear. His hands, cold and wet, thrust Denoriel's hat onto his head, cocked it at the right angle, adjusted the plume, and tenderly tucked the long ears into shelter under it.
"Do you know what I am?" Denoriel whispered.
He was holding back tears as he contemplated needing to bring the child to Elfhame Logres and subjecting him to the torture of having his memories destroyed. That was a dangerous thing, even with the best of the healers and a Magus Major working together. Too many memories might be lost. The child's mind could be damaged.
His vision had cleared and he saw FitzRoy's smile. "Of course," the boy said. "You're my fairy knight, my guardian. The Elf-Queen must have sent you to protect me. She's supposed to like little boys."
Denoriel nearly fainted with relief, clutching the boy in his arms for a long moment, indifferent to the wet from FitzRoy's clothing soaking into his own. Then he held the child at arms length and smiled broadly at the innocent face s
o near his own. Harry had found the perfect concealment. If the child said he had a fairy guardian, everyone would think it just a childish fancy. No one would argue that it was impossible or laugh at him so that he would try to defend his assertion with facts that might betray the truth. The adults who cared for him, particularly the nurse who told him fairy tales, would hide their smiles and nod. To be a fairy guardian was safe.
"I knew who you were the very first day when you knelt down to speak to me and kiss my hand," the boy continued, bright-eyed with happiness. "No one else ever did that; they just talked down at me, laughing inside when they called me 'Your Grace.' I saw your eyes. They aren't people eyes. Nurse told me about the fairies, only she calls them the Fair Folk, how they take care of children, how the fairy knights drive away nightmares and hobgoblins, and how sometimes a fairy knight will be guardian to a child if his Queen sends him—"
Mwynwen had been right to call him careless and to urge him always to wear a hat. Apparently he had forgotten to invoke his disguise the day he had first come with George Boleyn to meet Harry. And the nursery stories—a lucky accident . . . or Dannae was supporting him more openly than usual—were why the child had accepted him so easily, so quickly.
"Is there someone who is cruel to you, Harry?" Denoriel asked anxiously.
The boy considered Denoriel's question and looked a bit shamefaced. "No," he admitted. "Norfolk means well. He really does, even when he shouts and gives orders that spoil things." He sighed. "And Henry can't help being seven years older so he wins all the time. And I love Mary . . . even if she is a girl. But—but you came to me. You came to me when the others weren't near, so I knew you were my fairy knight in particular. Was it because of my father that you came?"
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