Vidal Dhu looked at Pasgen for just a moment as if he were considering the meaning behind Pasgen's remark that he would find death "hard to reverse." The prince then turned his glance to Rhoslyn, but from his expression seemed to find little satisfaction in what he saw. Pasgen was aware of the growing coldness beside him. He had no idea what Rhoslyn was thinking, but knew that even Vidal Dhu's probes would be unable to penetrate the shields she had erected.
They had been careless, Pasgen thought. They should have known the prince would sense the concentration of power in the net. Each of them should have added some subtle shielding. But it would have been necessary to react as if the fire-worms were effective anyway, and Rhoslyn's reaction was the best thing for both of them . . . though she would not thank him for seeing benefit in her suffering.
"The price you will pay for your neglect—to put the most innocent interpretation on your dereliction of duty," Vidal Dhu said, seeming to have dismissed completely not only what he had done and his previous bad temper but also Pasgen's refusal to dismiss the defensive net, "is to bring here to me Henry FitzRoy, the bastard son of King Henry VIII."
Rhoslyn shook her head. "You have called me stupid and lazy, my lord. Perhaps I deserved your chastisement for the latter, but I am not stupid. Anyone could have made off with the child I visited. He was hardly watched, except by a nurse who seemed more interested in her knitting than in her charge. Thus, the price, according to all I know, is too low to repay our carelessness. " She frowned. "Therefore, something must have changed that makes the deed more difficult. Something has made FitzRoy more difficult of access, and you call us lazy because we were not aware."
"Exactly! You see how a little discomfort stimulates the brain?" Anger returned to Vidal Dhu's expression. "While you two played in your hidden fastnesses—" the prince smiled with chilling sweetness as he informed them that he was aware of their experiments in the unformed regions of Underhill "—Henry FitzRoy has been given honor upon honor. He is now duke of Richmond—in case you did not know, that is the title the king himself bore before he came to the throne. And Richmond has precedence over every nobleman in the kingdom except King Henry himself and the other heirs of the king's body."
"But the princess has been sent to Wales with a great household in the traditional role of the heir to the throne," Rhoslyn pointed out.
"And FitzRoy has been appointed Lord Lieutenant of the Northern March, given the same kind of household, and sent to rule in the north," Vidal Dhu spat. "The king has not yet named his heir, but to so favor a bastard could have only one purpose."
Pasgen's mouth formed a thin, bitter line. "My informant will suffer for not telling me this! I'll see that none of his spells work for a month."
"You should have applied the punishment earlier," Vidal Dhu snapped. "Or do you not know that he has been acting in your absence? He gave a spell to a pair of cutthroats who barely missed drowning FitzRoy."
After a shocked silence, Rhoslyn asked, "By your will, my lord?"
"No, of course not," Vidal replied, unconsciously rubbing his hands along his arms as if the ice in Rhoslyn's voice had touched him physically. "Why should I order the child's death when it would be so much more amusing to have him here?" He paused, then looked from one twin to the other and whispered, "Bring him to me."
That was the last thing he said, nor did he trouble to bestow so much as another glance at them. A contemptuous gesture of one finger dismissed them, and they wheeled around each other, still shoulder to shoulder so the web would continue to protect them, went down the three steps from the dais on which Vidal's throne reposed, and started down the long aisle lined with Unseleighe creatures.
Neither would have been surprised if Vidal had launched a blow at them once their backs were turned. It would be no attempt to kill, not now once he had given his orders, but it would amuse him no end to see them fall on their faces. That sign of his disfavor would invite the sly minor torments of the boggles, the goblins, the small trolls and half-grown ogres that lined the aisle. Both kept their faces totally expressionless but seethed within. It was typical of Vidal Dhu that he did not reprimand in private but did his best to shame anyone who had displeased him before the entire court.
They passed the Unseleighe Sidhe—not so many of those, but a few true elves were born on the dark side, and their number was swelled by emigrants from the Seleighe Court. Tastes in amusement and occupation among the Sidhe varied. A few found themselves made uncomfortable by the disapproval of their neighbors and sought welcome among others who enjoyed pain and misery; fewer had gone so far that Oberon had cast them out. But Rhoslyn and Pasgen knew they were safe enough passing the Sidhe; those dark elves would be quick enough to leap on them if torture to the death was their fate. To trip them or pinch them or squirt them with foul-smelling liquid, however, was beneath Sidhe dignity.
Beyond the Sidhe was a mixed mass of repulsive beings of all sizes. First a thing with the head of a frog, a long, pronged, snakelike tail and slimy-looking leathery wings darted across their path, spraying a noxious liquid that dripped down the web of the net. Rhoslyn ignored the imp; Pasgen kicked out as he took a step and caught it on its soft belly so that it flew into the grip of a troll who was just reaching out for a sly push or pinch. The troll popped the creature into his mouth and looked gratified.
Most of the Unseleighe creatures were not very clever, and a Hag, seeming to think that the sacrifice of the frog-faced creature to the troll had been to pacify it when it threatened Pasgen, reached long, clawed fingers toward Rhoslyn to tear at her. Without even looking at the creature, Rhoslyn sent a burst of power through the net that burned the Hag's fingers to blackened stumps and followed that with a spray of the same fire-worms that Vidal had loosed upon her. Glancing in that direction at the Hag's howls of agony, Pasgen just saw the outflow of fire-worms. He grinned. No one could say that Rhoslyn was a slow learner.
They had not quickened or slowed the pace at which they were advancing, but the fate of the frog-face and the Hag seemed to have made an impression. No further attempts to annoy the twins were ventured, and in a few more moments they reached the doors. Those did not open automatically, even resisted momentarily when Pasgen applied pressure, but when the black material of which the doors were constructed began to turn bright red where Pasgen and Rhoslyn were facing them, they swung apart.
Behind them was silence. Pasgen and Rhoslyn wheeled around again, still inside the net of power, and faced into the throne room, looking down the aisle of creatures toward Vidal Dhu's throne. In unison they began to raise their right hands. The doors slammed shut.
Pasgen breathed out a long sigh and Rhoslyn closed her eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath. Their glances met, and the net around them dissolved. As it did, it became obvious that the construct had been almost dissolved before each reabsorbed part of the small amount of power that remained in it. Unwilling to deplete themselves too much while in Vidal Dhu's presence, each had drawn on the net—Rhoslyn for the surge that burned the Hag and created the fire-worms, Pasgen for his assault on the closed doors that Vidal had tried to use to make them look weak and foolish.
"Your place or mine?" Rhoslyn asked.
"Mine," Pasgen said. "Mother might be at your place, and I don't want her to hear about this."
Rhoslyn nodded and they hurried down the black marble steps to the courtyard where, off to one side, the two not-horses were tied. The coal-black steeds turned their red-eyed heads toward their oncoming riders. One lifted its lip to hiss, showing teeth that were as large and strong as those of any horse, but pointed into tearing fangs.
One of the things Rhoslyn and Pasgen bitterly envied their Seleighe half-twins was their elvensteeds. Barely in their teens, they had invaded Seleighe territory for the single purpose of getting mounts for themselves. But elvensteeds, they discovered, could not be accustomed to many of the sights and sounds in the Unseleighe Domain of their master. They were restless and unsettled, even when the Domain
was quiet, and unless confined, which was virtually impossible without the expenditure of enormous amounts of power, they would flee the place and not respond to their riders' summons. Perhaps in another realm or Domain, a quieter one, they might prove to be reliable and tractable mounts, but not here.
An alternative was clearly necessary, and Rhoslyn had sought for and found an Unformed region where the mists of formative stuff were particularly thick and sensitive. There she had worked over many years, gathering, forming, strengthening, and transferring crude sentience until she had created two beasts, not horses, certainly not elvensteeds, but something she and her brother could ride. The not-horses were stronger and cleverer than the mortal animals and far more vicious, but they could be controlled. One important aspect of the elvensteeds that Rhoslyn had not yet been able to duplicate was their ability to travel Underhill or reach it from the mortal world, and vice versa, without a Gate.
The twins mounted, after cuffing the restive mounts. Pasgen led, since it was his private domain—or one of them; Rhoslyn was not sure how many he had—to which they were going. He rode past the elaborate Gate Vidal Dhu had built outside the palace courtyard, straight ahead until the manicured lawn began to disappear into a tangle of trees and bushes. Only, when they came really close it was apparent that these were not well-defined constructs but blurred and ill-formed figments.
"He called us lazy," Pasgen muttered. "I wouldn't leave a dog-kennel in this half-done condition."
"It makes it easier to know where we are," Rhoslyn said, applying a sharp mental prod to the not-horse, which started to shy at the approach to the edge of reality.
Pasgen snorted and Rhoslyn recognized the strange mixture of awe and contempt: awe for the enormous power that could create the semblance of a large forest, probably with one careless gesture; contempt for the sloppy indifference that would then leave the work half done. Rhoslyn wondered as they passed through the ill-defined border and out into nothingness, how long it would be before Pasgen was tried too far and challenged Vidal. She shuddered, knowing she would be standing beside Pasgen when he tried. She could not help it; despite their differences, loyalty, and yes, love, bound them.
Her brother paused, Rhoslyn holding in her mount beside him; he lifted his head and swung it slowly right to left, his nostrils flaring slightly as if he were a scenting hound. After a moment, he set out at a slight angle to the direction in which they had crossed into the unfinished part of Vidal's domain.
Rhoslyn gathered power from the swirling mists in case she had to drive off something inimical. Vidal had left behind some very unpleasant things when he grew bored with creation. Perhaps he had intended them to be guards of his lands or denizens of the forest with which he had planned to surround his palace, but he had never finished his work so the creatures roamed free, taking what life force they could for their sustenance.
Defense was not necessary, however. They soon came to the end of Vidal's Domain and passed into another area of swirling mists and erratic breezes. Here Pasgen paused again, his body tense as he seemed to listen, but Rhoslyn knew he was feeling, sending out all his senses. She would have done the same, except that she did not know what Pasgen was seeking. In any case, she would not have had time because he nodded almost immediately.
"It's here. I came a different way, but I thought if we went off at that angle that we would avoid Wormegay Hold."
"Urgh!" Rhoslyn said. "That's a place I really hate. Why in the world did you set your Gate there?"
There were, of course, a number of Gates in and around Vidal Dhu's palace. Neither Rhoslyn nor Pasgen used them, unless they were going to the mortal world or to some place with a group to make merry or make mischief. Neither wanted Vidal able to trace where they had built their own private Domains, so the Gates that had those destinations were always built in Unformed areas that were not easy to find. Moreover they never worked or remained longer in those areas than necessary to reach their Gates.
Pasgen laughed at Rhoslyn's reaction as he set off at a quick place, quite sure of his direction. "I don't have a Gate in Wormegay," he said, "but except for this one finger that touches Vidal's domain, it's the only way into this area. Most people don't like Wormegay, but it has outlets into about twenty Other places." He was silent for a little while, then said thoughtfully, "I wonder if Wormegay is a sink of some kind, if all the oddities without power drain down into it and then can't get out."
"You do have weird ideas," Rhoslyn said, keeping her mount right on Pasgen's heels. She did not want to become separated from him in the formless mists and either need to call for help or spend who knew how long sensing for a Gate which he, doubtless, had hidden well.
Rhoslyn never did see it. She only knew they had passed through by the brief sense of disorientation, which made her not-horse hiss, and the fact that she was suddenly on the outskirts of the Bazaar of the Bizarre. Rhoslyn sighed, knowing Pasgen would not let her stop. She envied him his self-control as they rode into the market and were deafened by every creature known and unknown crying his/hers/its/their wares, assaulted by such a variety of odors in such quick succession that one could not enjoy the delectable or reject the obnoxious, and the sights . . . they were en masse indescribable.
Without hesitation, Pasgen wove through the crowds—here even the not-horses received no particular attention—and darted down this alley and that. Eventually he opened a shabby but not noticeable gate and passed through to what seemed the backyard of an inn. He rode into an empty stall of the stable . . . and disappeared. Rhoslyn rode in on his not-horse's heels and rode out into another Unformed area.
Here at last they came to the Gate that debouched into Pasgen's Domain, although Rhoslyn admitted to herself that she probably would not be able to find it again. That wasn't significant. Pasgen had provided her with her own path to his domain, but that, equally devious, started from her own and all the Gates were keyed to her and "called" her.
Anyone who knew Pasgen would instantly know they had arrived in his home place. It was quite beautiful, but wholly and completely unnatural. There were trees, but they were perfect, with exactly symmetrical branches that bore perfectly shaped leaves exactly spaced on each branch. And those leaves glittered and tinkled when they touched each other in the very slightly perfumed breeze that blew gently, first one way and then another. The bushes were equally perfect, some low and rounded, some squared, some taller, shaped gracefully from a wider base to a peak. They glittered too, and rustled musically.
The not-horses walked quietly along the soft lavender graveled road that wound gracefully through the outer lawns to the inner gardens. Rhoslyn sighed. Not a flower was out of place, not a leaf wilted. Even the bees flew in perfect patterns, and the butterflies danced predictably in defined groups to gentle music. Perfection. Peace. Stagnation!
"You don't like it?" Pasgen asked.
He always asked the same question, as if a short absence would have changed her mind. Rhoslyn shook her head. "I like a little disorder."
"Don't we have enough disorder in our lives?" Pasgen's voice was edged and rough.
Rhoslyn looked away and her voice was so soft only a Sidhe's ears could catch it. "A little happy disorder."
If Pasgen heard, he did not respond and around the next bend the house came into view. It too was beautiful, if stark. Pure white marble with black accents to mark the graceful curves and outline the many windows. There were no fanciful towers or turrets. The house was low, only two levels . . . at least only two levels above ground. What was below Rhoslyn did not know and did not want to know.
They went left when they entered through the gates, which drew apart as soon as Pasgen approached. Large, smooth-bodied servitors came forward to take the not-horses to a stable that complimented the house without obtruding. Servitors were constructs, beautifully made, neither handsome nor ugly. They were incredibly strong, totally without volition although capable of carrying out instructions, and mindlessly devoted to Pasgen, although they
would obey and protect her too, Rhoslyn knew.
Entering through the side door brought them to a small room where one could wash one's hands and change one's shoes if earth from the garden clung to them. They exited into a wide but not intimidating corridor with neutral, pleasant walls and rugs. A few doors down were two arches open onto the public rooms of Pasgen's house. On one side was a handsome dining parlor, all stark black and white: white walls, black floor; white marble table, ebony chairs. It was too familiar for Rhoslyn to give it more than a single glance.
On the other side was the room in which Pasgen entertained guests. The color scheme was the same, except for colored cushions here and there, but the colors were muted. Rhoslyn sank into a corner of a white leather—settle, she supposed, although it was heavily padded, not like the settles she knew at all, with the padding covered in the leather. She was surprised as she always was at how comfortable it was. Somehow despite frequent visits to her brother's dwelling she always expected the rigid-appearing furniture to be uncomfortable as it looked; instead it was smooth, enveloping, soothing.
"Something to drink? Eat?" Pasgen asked.
"Wine, I think, after that session." Rhoslyn watched Pasgen make a sign in the air and, after a moment, one of the servitors came in carrying a tray which held a bottle and two crystal glasses. "How could we have so overlooked the boy?" she wondered as the servitor set the tray on a clear glass table set on ebony legs. Pasgen lifted the crystal bottle and poured. "How could we have neglected to check up on him? He is the king's only living son."
"I'm amazed you need to ask," Pasgen said, handing her a glass into which he had poured a delicate pink wine. "What could it be except an arrangement by our dearly, dearly beloved half-sister and -brother." His fine, clear skin flushed slightly. "Can you believe a Seeing came to you and to me about the fate of this sceptered isle that did not come to Aleneil and Denoriel? Our powers are mirrored; we are two edges of the same sword. They could not interfere with that, and, of course, they would not put the child Mary at risk, but they must have layered on misdirection spells. . . ."
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