Reluctant approval from Miralys. Denoriel sighed and said, "Go around behind Windsor where the gate guards won't see us, Miralys, and let's Gate back Underhill. I can't bring this to FitzRoy tonight. I'd have to break the shield to give it to him and that would be a waste of work and magic."
Once home, he headed for the dining room. "A decent evening meal," he said into the air. "I don't care what."
Instantly a place setting, goblets, a decanter of wine all appeared before his favorite seat, one which permitted him either to look out through the windows at the woods and meadows or call up a clear panel on the far wall that would show the outside corridor. He did neither, staring sightlessly down at the delicate porcelain plate until, a few moments later, he became aware that it was still empty. He looked around, puzzled, and then laughed at himself.
The cold iron, even muffled at it was, was keeping his servitors away. Sighing, he rose and went into the living room. There, he deposited his prize in a shielded box he used to keep odd trinkets he had taken from the victims of the Wild Hunt. They were all things with some feel of power to them, things Koronos said should not be left for others to find but that no one else wished to touch. Nor did anyone else have any suggestions about how to dispose of the objects, so Denoriel, the least affected, kept them.
He looked down at them: an odd little knife, mostly of bone but with an ugly hook and serrated edge of steel; a whistle that had almost defeated the whole Wild Hunt because it sent the dogs howling and groveling in agony and brought all the elvensteeds to their knees; three matched steel coins with sharp edges connected by short thin chain to . . . Denoriel had no idea for what those coins were used, but there was an ugly feeling about them.
Shaking free of the recurring question, he put the well-wrapped cross in the box on top of the lot, and closed it. When he returned to the dining room, his meal was on the table. He began to eat without tasting. There was no doubt that the cold iron cross would keep any lesser Unseleighe creature away from FitzRoy. A determined Sidhe might force him or herself to come near the boy, but to seize him would cost pain, even injury.
That raised another question. He rubbed his thigh, where the ache caused by the shielded cross he had carried in his purse was just beginning to diminish. How could he touch Harry if the boy was wearing the unshielded cross? FitzRoy was used to being hugged; Denoriel shuddered at the thought of pressing Harry to him with that cross hanging on Harry's chest. He could do it if he had to, but . . .
He pointed to his wine goblet, which was refilled, and sipped from it while he pondered the problem. Harry had called him a fairy knight, and was aware that fairies could not abide cold iron. And therein lay his solution. He would only have to tell the child to pull a protective silk pouch over the cross when he arrived. But layers of silk had not been enough to keep the thing from hurting him, though it was merely some discomfort and not real injury; still, he didn't want to wince every time he embraced the boy. Perhaps a magic shield more effective than those he knew would help. Mwynwen might know . . . or Aleneil.
Aleneil first. She would be anxious about what had happened after she sent him off to the mortal world in such a hurry. He gestured at the table, which was instantly cleared, and sent a call to Miralys. Then he went to get the cross. When he opened the box, an aching unease stole out of it like a miasma. Denoriel set his teeth and reached for the cross, then hesitated. If he took that with him as it was, he might upset the patterns of the Gates. Denoriel shook his head. All the Magus Majors in Underhill would be out hunting his hide. He closed the box again and took the whole thing with him.
The FarSeers had their own place within Elfhame Avalon, comprised of the learning place and a number of separate cottages. It was tucked away by itself across wide meadows and buried in a gentle shadowy wood of flowering trees. A narrow grassy path approached it, passed under an archway in the featureless, round, white school building, and opened onto a placid lawn through which ran a very small tinkling stream. A number of cottages were arranged around the lawn; they were indistinguishable one from another, but Denoriel knew that his sister's house was the last to the left when exiting the arch, closest to the woods.
He sent a thought out to her, and the door opened at once. A moment later Aleneil was standing in it, a hand stretched in welcome. Denoriel dismounted, the box firmly clutched under one arm. Miralys dropped his head to the grass of the lawn.
"What happened?" Aleneil asked as she gestured him to come into her sitting room. "I scryed the fight, but who were the men? Why did they try to kill FitzRoy?"
"I'm not sure who the men were, but you were right about them not being Unseleighe, even though they used a sleep spell on FitzRoy's guards. They were purely mortal. Their weapons were steel."
"A sleep spell?" Aleneil echoed, then said, "Sit down, brother, and take some ease. You have had no rest in a long time. Are you hungry?"
It took Denoriel a moment to remember that he had eaten, so distracted had he been during the meal, but he said, "No, I ate at home—though I have not the faintest idea what."
Aleneil nodded acceptance and waved toward the chairs that flanked a well-padded settle. Denoriel sat in one, delicately carved and inset with mother-of-pearl, which luminously gave back the greenish blue of the double-thick soft cushions. He set the box on his lap. Aleneil looked at it, but seemed to decide to put that question aside.
"You said the assassins had a sleep spell?" she said, sinking down into a corner of the settle herself.
Denoriel's lips tightened. "There's a mortal mage involved."
"A mortal mage," she repeated, her expression reflecting distress. "I thought the coming of Christianity, or at least, of all this 'New Learning,' had done away with them. All the years of hunting and burning because some fool wrote down 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' If the witch does no harm, why not?" She sighed and shook her head. "Of course, there still were born those who could become mortal mages. Men and women are born with Talent all the time, but I didn't know anyone would dare train one or that any were strong enough to give a spell to another to use." She tapped her finger on the arm of the settle. "Perhaps one of those men was a mage, himself?"
He shook his head. "I cannot say, except that I think not. Both were too skilled as swordsmen to have spent much time studying magic. And neither tried to use magic on me when we were fighting, nor against FitzRoy. My guess is that they had an amulet with a release word but had no personal knowledge of or trust in magic." He told her about how the ensorcelled men had been tied and gagged, finishing, "And they did wake within a time that I felt was too short for safe completion of the purpose."
His sister frowned a little. "But it would not have been too soon if you had not come. It would not have taken long to drown the boy, perhaps five minutes. Then they would have fled, and the guards would have wakened very soon, all but eliminating the chance that someone would find them asleep."
Denoriel scowled. "Do you really think a human mage could judge the duration of a spell that finely? I cannot."
"I don't know," Aleneil admitted, "but I don't want you to underestimate your opponents. So, you believe that the men were only hire-swords?"
He thought back to his encounter. "Possibly hire-swords, but not, I think, men off the London street. Norfolk seemed to think that they were Spanish and had come in the entourage of the Imperial ambassador, Inigo de Mendosa, and then, after I wounded them, got away by hiding themselves among his numerous guardsmen."
"Spanish." Aleneil shivered gently. "That is from where the Inquisition will come if we do not manage to enthrone our red-haired babe, but why should the Spanish attack FitzRoy?"
So Denoriel told her what George Boleyn had told him about the succession to the throne. When he had explained the importance of a male heir, she sighed and nodded.
"They wish to make sure the path is clear for Princess Mary who, in her innocence and piety will bring in the Inquisition." She shook her head. "Cruel, so cruel! I cannot understan
d these mortals. But how can you possibly protect FitzRoy from mortal attacks? You cannot be with him constantly."
"I'm no longer much worried about direct or physical attacks." The more he thought about it, the less likely another direct attempt at the boy's life seemed. "I don't think poor FitzRoy will be allowed to enter the jakes alone. He will be better guarded—the men right with him, not standing at a gate some distance away—and the other children will be with him too. And since strong suspicions have already been aroused by this past attempt on him another, even if successful, would be fruitless."
His sister blinked at that. "Why?"
He smiled humorlessly. He grew better acquainted with the machinations of mortals every day. Perhaps, when all this was over, he should consider a position as advisor to the Seleighe king. "Because King Henry would be so outraged that he would likely expel the Spanish from the country and make sure that all Spanish influence is removed from around the princess. She is still young enough to be taught to hate them, specially by her father, whom she admires and loves. And for her mother to try to excuse them . . . What could Queen Catherine say, that the Spaniards murdered her bastard nephew to smooth her daughter's way to the throne?"
Aleneil nodded slowly. "She would soon abhor Spanish influence. I have heard something about her, and apparently she is truly good at heart but narrow of mind. So is young FitzRoy safe?"
Now came the tricksy part. "From death, I hope he is, but more endangered than ever of being stolen away to the Unseleighe Court. Until now, as you said to me, they have overlooked FitzRoy. Mary is the legitimate heir, and Underhill we do not think so little of our women as they do in the mortal world. Unfortunately this attempt on him by the Spanish will point out that they fear him and draw Vidal's attention."
Aleneil interrupted. "But to steal him away would result in the same outrage and suspicion against the Spanish—"
"Not if a changeling was left in his place."
"But how can they make a changeling?" Aleneil asked. "None of them has ever seen FitzRoy, have they?"
"I don't know," Denoriel admitted. "I never felt any touch of the Unseleighe on him, and I know the people who are always around him. But Windsor is a busy place, especially when Norfolk is in residence. Many come and go—those assassins did."
"I see." Aleneil bit her lip. "A changeling! How can you protect him? There is no way you can be constantly in his company. I can help you set a shield that will protect him from being ensorcelled or being fooled by a glamour, but if they simply muffle his cries and carry him away . . ."
Denoriel shook his head and grinned. "I have the answer to that." And he opened the box he had set on his knees when he sat down.
Aleneil gasped and shrank away as far as she could get. "In the name of Dannae, what have you there?"
"Cold iron," Denoriel said, his voice a bit rough despite having braced himself against the baleful influence of the thing. It was hard to believe that it wasn't a thing of evil in and of itself, that it was just that it was poison to his kind. . . .
"Put it away," Aleneil said, somewhat breathlessly. "Why did you bring it here? For what will you use it?"
"This is what will protect FitzRoy," Denoriel said, dropping it back into the box and closing it. "He is mortal. He can wear it without harm or discomfort. But no Unseleighe creature will be able to approach it. A determined Sidhe might seize him, but not for long. The cross was muffled in more than eight layers of silk."
"A cross? I have never been affected by a cross before," Aleneil protested.
"The cross is made of cold iron—pure cold iron without any admixture of any other metal. What I have come for, sister, is help with a shielding spell to muffle it."
Aleneil shook her head. "But if you shield it, it will no longer protect the child."
"The spell will be on a pouch I will provide, a triple-thick, tight-woven silk pouch. I hope the silk will shield the spell from the iron and the spell will shield me from it. Harry is used to being touched by me. He holds my hand and expects me to hug him—and I am glad enough to show him all the affection he wants because he's a sweet child . . . but I cannot touch him if he will be wearing that cross, unshielded."
As he spoke, Denoriel was already envisioning the kind of silk pouch he wanted, the tightness of the weave close enough to make the silk waterproof. He decided on three layers bonded together with the substance the silkworms used to seal their cocoons, which made the silk almost as stiff as wood but more flexible. That bonding substance might even provide additional shielding.
He envisioned the pouch the length and width of the cross then added a touch more space so the cross would slip in easily. But how would it stay in? Denoriel thought of the easiest thing for a still-clumsy child, a simple flap. No, a flap with a hole in it for the gold chain he would provide to go through. When the cross was pulled out, the pouch, still held by the chain, would drop behind, leaving the cross exposed. To ken such a thing was a small matter, easily done.
As he saw it, so it appeared on his hand a little while later. He noticed as he called in and wove power and air and mist from the Unformed places together with atoms of earth from the lawn that he could feel the channels throughout his body as if they were a little bruised. They were not painful now; the power Underhill seemed to soothe away the too-hot lightning power he had drawn into him in the mortal world, but he was aware of them, aware of other things in his body. When he had time, he must speak to a Magus Major . . .
He held out the pouch to Aleneil and she touched it with one finger, then cocked her head to one side. "Is that suitable to a child?" she asked. "That solid black?"
Denoriel sighed at his oversight and fixed his eyes on the silk. Silver and gold threads began to crawl over the surface; then the interstices filled with color. When the pattern was complete, they both smiled. Denoriel had imitated an image he had seen frequently, a sweet-faced woman in a blue mantle with one hand raised in blessing.
"Yes, that's just the kind of thing that would be given to a child," Aleneil said, and began to build a spell, gesturing for Denoriel to follow the creation in her mind.
When she was done, he repeated the process, layering one shield over the other. Then he drew a deep breath and opened the shielded box to lift out the silk-swathed cross. Aleneil rose and withdrew. Denoriel set his teeth and began to unwrap his prize. His teeth were gritted and sweat beaded his forehead by the time he was able to lift the cross by its ribbon and slide it into the prepared pouch.
The violent sickness that had made him think he was going to lose the dinner he couldn't remember was instantly gone. The feeling of malaise, the subtle ache in his bones . . . all gone. Denoriel took a deep breath and called for his sister, who peeked warily around the doorway, then smiled and came in.
"I see we were successful," she said.
He nodded. "I just hope we weren't too successful. You see how I made the pouch so the cross can hang inside it or outside. I was afraid if I just gave the pouch loose to the boy he would lose it. He's only six, after all. Now I am concerned that he will forget to take the cross out again when I leave him."
Aleneil shrugged. "I can bespell you to remind him to take the cross out whenever you leave him. That is no great problem. More important is how you are going to hide the cross from his servants and anyone else who might see him take off his clothing and how you are going to explain to him what it is for, that he needs to put it in the pouch in your presence, and always wear it."
"There will be no need to hide it from his servants. I am not going to give it to Harry directly . . . at least, I hope I will not need to do so. I am going to tell a tale to the duke of Norfolk that will induce him to give the cross to Harry. He need not know that the boy will always wear it because the nurse will not tell him. She is superstitious. If she believes the cross to be a good-luck charm, she will help the boy hide it. For now, that will be enough."
CHAPTER 7
Pasgen examined himself with near-black, round-pup
illed eyes, staring into the full-length reflecting glass. Tight black curls framed his swarthy-skinned face and fell to his shoulders, hiding his ears although those were bespelled by illusion into the stupid round ears of a human. A tightly pleated white ruff encircled his throat, relieving the stark black of his doublet. But the buttons were gold and gold piped the seams. Gold also clocked his black hose and showed through the slashes on his puffed breeches.
He was richly enough dressed, Pasgen thought, to affirm his position to the man he was about to visit. His only variation from the Spanish norm was that he was taller and stronger than any of the Spanish men that he had yet seen. Too bad, he thought. He was not going to diminish himself into pathetic mortal stature. If Martin Perez remembered him and described him, it would not matter. Inigo de Mendoza would deny the existence of such a servant—and Perez would be even more sure of his importance if he did not know Pasgen's master. He would probably assume anyone dressed with this much wealth and with such physical presence reported back to a very high churchman at the least—or perhaps, had been sent directly from the king of Spain.
Besides, his strength would serve as an additional weapon to terrify the fool who had betrayed him.
A thought sent one of his blank-faced servitors for a horse, a real horse, not Torgan the not-horse, because he could not take a beast with clawed paws instead of hooves, blazing red eyes, and predator's teeth into the mortal world. When frequent visits to Overhill had become necessary, Pasgen had purchased mortal horses for himself and Rhoslyn. He rode a handsome brute as black as his not-horse with a temper even worse than Torgan's; Pasgen did not mind the temper, but the beast did not have the strength of the not-horse.
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