This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  He would bring it to Mwynwen. Perhaps she could save it, set a spell on it so that it could draw power from the rich flow Underhill. No! He dared not leave Windsor to carry this—this changeling Underhill. The black Sidhe, whoever it was, might seize Harry, might abduct him even if it could not leave the changeling behind. And there was the ship, too. What if the ship carried some spell that could make Harry docile or even do him harm? Where? Where could he hide this simulacrum that the magic in it would not call out to its creator?

  Could Miralys take the boy to Mwynwen without him, bursting through the wall between the worlds right from the stable? What if the stable boys noticed the elvensteed's absence? And first he had to get to Miralys . . . Miralys. Miralys had a huge magic aura that, likely, would swallow up the magic presence of the changeling. And Miralys could protect the boy too. It would take a strong and determined Sidhe to get past the elvensteed.

  Now he had to get to Miralys. He could not simply walk back into the stable with a large bundle in his arms. He would have to use the Don't-see-me spell, but he hated to deplete his magic when a confrontation with the black Sidhe was imminent. He glanced down at the simulacrum he held, knowing he could increase his own store of power greatly by sucking power out of the boy. Denoriel shuddered and cast the Don't-see-me spell. If he needed it, he would drink lightning. Crippling his magic was better than killing a child, even if it was a construct.

  It was no trouble after that to walk through the stable to Miralys's stall. He laid the bundle down in the straw right under the small trough affixed to the wall to hold grain. He could see the straw flatten, but the bundle did not appear even when he withdrew his arms. He wondered if the spell on the changeling would break when he broke the spell on himself . . . if the sleep spell would break too . . . Would the child cry out? Would Miralys be able to keep him from running to the stable boys?

  Biting his lips, Denoriel drew his knife, cut strips from a horse blanket, bound the child lightly, folded his kerchief and gagged him; then he drew straw over him. Poor child, how frightened he would be if he woke. Denoriel prayed the black Sidhe's sleep spell would hold and then bit his lip again. If it did, would that mean that the black Sidhe was stronger in magic and spell casting than he?

  He turned to Miralys. "This is the changeling," he whispered. "It is . . . it is the image of Harry. I cannot harm it, but I cannot chance its being found and mistaken for Harry. Keep it safe for me, Miralys."

  And there was a white kitten in the empty grain trough.

  :With sour man:

  What? Denoriel thought, but he did not say it aloud. He searched his scattered wits for what the air spirit could mean. Then he remembered he had sent it to look for the black Sidhe. Sour man?

  "Norfolk?"

  :Big place. Many servants. Bespelled sour man . . . maybe. Nearly caught. Ran away:

  Denoriel swallowed hard. "Find Harry!"

  He did not raise his voice above the whisper he had been using, but the force in it sent the air spirit out of the stable like a pebble from a slingshot. He stared after it until Miralys nudged him with his nose and then dropped his head to gently nose at the child. Denoriel wondered if the spell affected the elvensteed; he thought not, because Miralys had not seemed in the least surprised when he spoke, but, of course, the elvensteed could smell him . . . And then he uttered a soft sound of contempt for himself and rushed out of the stable and back to the carriage house.

  Beside the coach door, Denoriel drew a long breath and dismissed the Don't-see-me spell. Imagine standing there in the stable and wondering about Miralys's abilities when the black Sidhe could have arrived and given Harry the ship! No, the kitten would have come to warn him. But that thought could not cover over the fact that he had been idling in the stable near Miralys because he was afraid!

  Denoriel could feel his skin heat with embarrassment. He was no coward—he had raised his sword against both men and Sidhe—but he was aware of his weakness in the use of magic. What a young fool he had been to refuse the teaching offered by Magus Major Treowth and assume that his skill with a sword could answer all threats.

  No matter. He would not let Harry be taken. He opened the coach door, stepped in, and took hold of the ship. The ambience of magic was very much diminished and what he felt from it had a flavor that Denoriel recognized. He breathed a sigh of relief. The ship was only radiating the residual magic of being a kenned object; that magic would fade steadily until the ship was only a real thing of wood and cloth and string.

  Sure now the ship was harmless, Denoriel wondered why it had been left in the coach—and then felt like a fool again. The ship was the excuse to bring Harry here. Of course the black Sidhe would bring the child to the coach! That was where it expected to clothe the changeling in what Harry was now wearing, put a sleep spell on Harry, and cover him with the cloak. It would then send the changeling, now wearing Harry's clothing, out to Harry's guards, who must be bespelled not to notice the exchange, and drive out of the gates as innocent as an angel.

  Would Harry also be bespelled? Denoriel's breath caught and then sighed out in relief. Not unless the child had for some reason shielded his cross. Denoriel felt a chill of apprehension, but the black Sidhe could not know the secret exchanges and Harry had never failed to use one before he put the cross into its pouch.

  Denoriel picked up the ship and backed carefully out of the carriage, again shutting the door with his shoulder. Despite his suppressed anxiety, he had a wicked smile on his lips. Just how angry will the black Sidhe be, Denoriel wondered, when he sees me coming out of the carriage house to present the ship to Harry? Angry enough to be off balance and less able to throw spells? His smile disappeared. Angry enough to forget the need to keep the child safe and throw levin bolts about?

  Rhoslyn would certainly have bespelled the child if she could have gotten close enough to FitzRoy to touch him, even right there in the entryway. She had carefully prepared a spell that induced a state of utter compliance. In its hold, a person could walk, possibly even answer a direct question, but be no more aware than one who slept and be perfectly obedient. All she had to do was touch the person she wanted to bespell and say, "Fiat."

  Unfortunately for her, as the two guards and the boy reached the level floor of the entrance, the guards fanned out to either side, shepherding the boy safely between them. Once caught, twice shy, Rhoslyn thought, remembering the attack on FitzRoy, so she said nothing and nodded to the servant to open the doors.

  To her chagrin, the taller of the two guards bowed slightly and gestured her ahead. However, perhaps it was just as well. If she had put the spell on them immediately, one might have stumbled going down the stair, or his posture or expression might have changed enough to alarm the two guards who stood outside the door. She followed patiently until the road that led to the stables and the carriage house curved out of sight of the front door. Then she stopped, turned, and curtsied.

  "It is not right for me to precede the duke of Richmond. You all know where the carriage house is. That is where I am going to show His Grace the surprise I have for him."

  The boy looked brightly interested now. When he had first seen her nun's habit, his expression had held a mingling of anxiety and mild resentment. He had not been told why he was sent for, apparently, and expected a lecture of some kind. He was an adorable boy, his expression keener and more changeable than that of the changeling. Still, her heart ached a little at the thought of that innocent victim.

  FitzRoy started to say something and the taller guard said, "Very well, Sister."

  "Why can't we all walk together, Gerrit?" FitzRoy asked.

  "It's safer this way, Your Grace," Gerrit said, smiling down at his charge. "No matter which way anyone runs at us, Nyle and me can be right around you. If the good Sister was between, she'd be in the way, and she might be in danger too. Before or behind, she'd be out of the way and safe."

  Rhoslyn could have done without that explanation, but it was easy enough to think of a reaso
n why the guard's logic was no longer valid. She let the three pass her and followed for a little while without any protest. When she knew the carriage house would soon be in sight, she stepped closer, touched each guard lightly on the back of the neck, and murmured, "Fiat."

  A few steps later—the open doors of the carriage house were now quite near—she said, "Wait, please." Everyone stopped, but only FitzRoy turned to look at her. The two guards stared straight ahead. The child looked up, first at one and then at the other. His eyes widened a trifle and his lips parted.

  Hastily Rhoslyn said, "Please let me and His Grace go ahead together now. You can see the carriage house so it is quite safe. There cannot be any attack from the palace carriage house."

  That was utterly ridiculous. The carriage house with its stored carts and coaches and wide doors was an ideal place to lay an ambush—assuming the ambushers could have got into Windsor . . . and at least one set of attackers had got in before. Still, the guards said nothing. FitzRoy looked from one to another again, puzzled and beginning to show signs of suspicion, but Rhoslyn had already come around in front of them.

  "Come," she said, holding out her hand. "Take my hand. You will be perfectly safe holding the hand of a Holy Sister. Your guards are overcautious. No one would attack a nun."

  The last sentence seemed to reassure the boy and he stepped out from between his guards, holding out his hand. Rhoslyn bent forward a trifle and took it, the word "Fiat" ready on her tongue. Instead she screamed and snatched back her hand. Simultaneously the child shouted, "Lord Denno!" and leapt past her before she could muster the strength to resist the burning pain and seize him.

  "Rhoslyn!" Denoriel exclaimed, shocked, although he did not know why he was surprised.

  He had heard that Rhoslyn was a master fabricator, that it was she who had molded the not-horses out of the unformed stuff of the chaos lands. But it was Pasgen who was the greater spell caster. Somehow he had expected a Sidhe who could attack and defend with spells, even though he knew the black Sidhe could not have been Pasgen because it was dressed as a nun.

  His half-sister's name was all he was able to say, however, because as Harry came close, the cross he wore was driving into Denoriel spikes that burned with cold.

  "Is that a new sword?" Harry cried, his eyes round with excitement.

  "No," Denoriel got out, swallowing pain. "It's the one I wore the day your ship got broken. And here is a new ship to replace the old one." He held it up for Rhoslyn to see, but to Harry he said urgently, "Get behind me! Don't cover your cross!"

  The boy slipped behind him and grabbed at his doublet, his fingers brushing the back of Denoriel's thighs. Denoriel hissed with pain, but the heavy silken cloth of his hose saved him from the worst of the burning. Warily, he watched Rhoslyn, wondering if she would tell the guards to attack him.

  The guards . . . if they attacked, he could shout for help from the stable boys. No, he couldn't. They would come out, but they were more likely to help the guards than to help him. Still, if the guards attacked him, they couldn't grab for Harry on Rhoslyn's command. Bespelled as they were, they could only follow one order at a time. He could give Harry the ship and tell him to take it to the palace to show Norfolk. But Rhoslyn seemed to have forgotten the guards completely. She stared at the ship Denoriel was holding.

  "You've been inside the coach," she whispered. He could barely hear her. "You found . . . You found . . ."

  Her eyes were enormous and shining with tears—and they were a deep, warm brown, as were the brows above them. Denoriel wondered if he would have recognized her if the wimple had not covered all but the central portion of her face. If he had seen her dark-eyed, dark-haired, round-eared and dressed as a court lady, would he have known her?

  But the tears! Denoriel could not imagine Rhoslyn weeping over anything at all. Death and pain fed her power. Could she care for the changeling she had made? The simulacrum was as much her own creation as a child born of her body, and to pass as Harry it would have had to have the same sweet, sunny nature. Had she fallen victim to her own creation's charms?

  For a moment Denoriel was strongly tempted to tell her that the changeling was safe. Then he realized that her show of emotion was likely a trap for him. There was little chance that she could fashion another simulacrum; the knowledge she had drawn from the attackers had been transferred bit by bit to the changeling that now lay under the straw in the stable. However, if Rhoslyn knew that it still lived, attempts would be made to seize it and complete the exchange another time. Harry would be in continued danger.

  "It is beyond your reach now, Rhoslyn."

  The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "Murderer!" she breathed. "Murderer!"

  "Whatever I have done, it has made what you wished to do impossible. Tell Vidal Dhu that we guard our charge well."

  "Oh, I will tell him, Denoriel Siencyn Macreth Silverhair, I will tell him! I will tell all of Underhill that you murdered a helpless child. I will have your heart's blood for it."

  She whirled past him, Denoriel backing away and turning so that he was always between her and Harry. But she did not look at them. She ran into the stable, and Denoriel could hear her calling an order for the princess's coach to make ready to depart. Denoriel bent down to hand the boat to FitzRoy, gritting his teeth against the effect of the cold iron cross.

  "Did you murder a child, Lord Denno?" Harry's eyes were enormous and his voice trembled.

  "No, of course not! I just hid him from her." He thought about trying to explain to Harry what Rhoslyn had intended, and realized at once that there was no time. "She must not know, though! Now run back to the house, Harry, quickly, and show His Grace of Norfolk the lovely ship that Princess Mary sent to replace the one that was broken."

  "Will you come with me?"

  Fortunately the boy's hands were both busy holding the ship and he could not reach to take hold of Denoriel.

  "No, I cannot. Not today." Nonetheless Denoriel began to walk back toward the palace with the boy, past the guards who were still staring into space. "I . . . I must watch to be sure the Sister truly leaves Windsor. I will not harm her, but she must not stay."

  There was a moment of silence while FitzRoy first stared up at his motionless guards and then at Denoriel. He thrust the toy ship back at the elf.

  "No, no. Keep it, Harry. It's nothing to do with the nun. It's a gift from your sister, Princess Mary. It will not harm you, I swear."

  FitzRoy clutched the ship to his chest, began to smile, lost the smile as he glanced at the guards again. Then he asked softly, "Did my cross hurt her? Was that why she yelled? She was a bad fairy, wasn't she? What did she want to do to me?"

  "Nothing," Denoriel hastened to assure the child. He didn't want Harry to have any more nightmares of being drowned or otherwise killed. "She wouldn't have hurt you, Harry."

  Denoriel would not go so far as to say Rhoslyn would have been kind. The Unseleighe Sidhe enjoyed pain and fear, physical or mental, and drew power from a variety of violent emotions. He wouldn't say that either because he didn't want to frighten the child, but he had to tell FitzRoy something to keep him wary of those who could not abide cold iron.

  "I think she intended to take you away. But if you had not been wearing your cross," he continued, "she would have done to you what she did to the guards and would have taken you away where I could never come to see you. Worse than that, she would have kept you from your father, the king. Now I know you don't much care for being a duke and being responsible for a lot of people, but it is your father the king's will, and truly, Harry, although you don't want the burden, it is for the good of England. The bad fairy doesn't understand that, and wanted to put someone else in your place as duke, someone who would not have understood that he must do his duty."

  "I know," the boy said, sighing. "His Grace of Norfolk tells me my duty over and over." But then he smiled. "Anyway, I wouldn't want to go anywhere that we couldn't be together sometimes, even if I didn't have to be a duke a
ny more." The smile disappeared. "Why did my sister Princess Mary send a bad fairy to me? Does she hate me?"

  The last thing Denoriel wanted was for Harry to show fear or hatred toward Princess Mary. That would be dangerous politically.

  "Of course not," he said, keeping his voice steady with an effort as the cold iron wore away at him, "I don't think Princess Mary knew anything at all about Rhoslyn being a bad fairy. I think Rhoslyn made someone the princess trusted ask to borrow a coach for a nun. You know how much the princess loves the Church. She would agree to that."

  "And the ship? How did Mary know my ship was broken?"

  "Oh, Harry," Denoriel sighed. "Sometimes I wish you weren't so clever. Likely the princess didn't know about the ship. But she might have been told that the nun wanted to visit you at Windsor. If so, she would have told the nun, or maybe the servant who asked for the loan of the coach, to bring you a present in her name. Princess Mary surely wished to give you a gift, for she cares for you. The ship, I'm sure, was Rhoslyn's idea, but the idea of a gift was Princess Mary's."

  "You know her, don't you? You know her name." FitzRoy looked up at the guards. His lips trembled and tears came to his eyes. "What . . . what did she do to Gerrit and Nyle?"

  Behind him Denoriel could hear the clop of hooves and the coachman talking to the stable boys or maybe to the horses. He had about a quarter of an hour while the coach was drawn out of the coach house and the horses were backed along the shaft so the traces could be fastened. Denoriel urged FitzRoy around the curve in the road and toward the trees and shrubs that bordered it. He had realized that he couldn't send Harry back to the palace without his guards.

  "I'll take care of Gerrit and Nyle," he said, praying that he could. "Just you wait here—don't move because I'm going to make you a little invisible house of protection."

  He cast the strongest shield he knew around FitzRoy. As the shield formed—a thin, shining mist to his inner sight, not much more dense than the thin ambience of Overhill power—he breathed a sigh of double relief. First that the shield had formed at all around the boy wearing cold iron, and second because the aching, burning cold caused in him by the cross had disappeared. That meant that the shield, no matter how diaphanous it looked, was whole and strong.