This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  Denoriel backed Miralys a little farther up the road so he could watch both sides. Usually ambushers would follow after an initial attack, but sometimes they would wait on the opposite side the better to surprise their victims. Only no one burst out of the woods on either side of the road. Although Denoriel half drew his sword, he was not really surprised by the lack of a second charge to follow the first. If the purpose of the attack had been to seize Harry, those who sent the goblins must already have realized they could not succeed.

  "Should we go see if we can help?" Dickson asked doubtfully, watching the chaos spread back down the cortege.

  "What could you do?" Denoriel asked, holding Harry tight against him. "Sword or bow, even a knife, can't be used against them. You'd do more harm than good, getting in the way of people driving them off. Besides, God knows what started them. Your duty is to stay by His Grace and protect him. What if outlaws should chose this time to rush the cortege?"

  The men began anxiously to scan the road ahead and both sides. Denoriel himself no longer had the smallest desire to laugh at the tiny, nearly powerless goblins. He swallowed.

  He and Harry were in no danger because Miralys could easily outrun the little horrors and his shield protected them, but for those whose horses had become uncontrollable a multitude of dangers loomed. A man thrown from his horse could be badly injured by the fall, swarmed over in moments and badly clawed, probably could be eaten alive in a quarter hour if he were knocked unconscious and could not defend himself. The horses would be slashed and bitten; some might succumb to the poison in the goblins' claws and bite. That might happen to the servants in the char, too.

  He thought of Mistress Bethany and gritted his teeth. There was nothing he could do. The largest shield a Major Magus could cast could not cover the entire cortege, particularly as it scattered in panic. And he could feel his own power draining; he should never have tried to use levin-fire against the goblins.

  All he could do was watch—as helpless as any mere mortal!

  And hope that the worse was not to come.

  CHAPTER 15

  It took hours to reassemble the cortege, which dragged itself into Maidenhead after the sun had set. Long before that, Denoriel and Mistress Bethany had settled FitzRoy in the very best chamber of the best and largest inn of the town. Without argument, Denoriel took possession of a tiny servant's room that opened into FitzRoy's bedchamber, the nurse having elected to sleep in a trundle bed right beside her nurseling. All with approval of Sir Christopher.

  Even while most of the cortege was fighting goblins and the disorder was spreading, Sir Christopher and his guard had forced their way to Denoriel. Both were bleeding, as were their horses. However, Sir Christopher's relief at seeing FitzRoy no worse for the event, not even badly frightened, was enormous, and ensured Denoriel's continued supervision of his precious charge. And Denoriel's suggestion that he go ahead with FitzRoy's four guards and another four of the guardsmen who had regained control of their horses and returned, also obtained instant approval. In fact, Sir Christopher nearly groaned with pleasure at having one burden removed so he could attend to reordering the cortege.

  Denoriel sent Nyle and Shaylor to collect Mistress Bethany—if she were in condition to ride pillion behind one of the men. She too was bitten and bleeding but came, perched determinedly behind Nyle, utterly furious, and the white kitten's basket was fastened behind Shaylor.

  "What were they, Lord Denno?" she asked as soon as she was close enough to speak without shouting. "Those weren't no rats I've ever seen before. And they were after my kitten. Ten of them I squashed, I swear, trying to get into her basket. And the others in the char must have took out near fifty. We all nearly fainted from the smell."

  "I have no idea," Denoriel answered mendaciously. "I never saw one close enough. Miralys here didn't like them one bit and he's got a mighty jump. He just sailed right over them, and then they went down the road so we didn't see any more."

  "And you're all right, Your Grace?" she asked looking at FitzRoy. "You weren't bitten or scratched?"

  "No, Mistress Bethany. Lord Denno took good care of me."

  "He always does," the nurse said, with a warmly approving glance. "Still, the sooner we're under a tight roof the better I'll like it. And better still if we can get a priest to come bless us! Those weren't no natural rats, that I'll swear!"

  That was true enough. She obviously relaxed when they arrived at the inn and were welcomed with every honor and grace the innkeeper could devise. Even so, when Denoriel said he would like the servant's chamber, she was clearly glad. The kitten was released. It had recovered from its panic and investigated every inch of the chamber, even darting out the door when an inn servant came bringing warm water for washing. It soon returned, calming the nurse's anxiety, and settled in her lap.

  Fortunately for Denoriel, reaction from the excitement soon overtook everyone. Someone managed to find a priest, a little mendicant friar of one of the begging orders, who looked greatly perplexed at what he heard, but obediently went around signing the cross, muttering Latin, and splashing holy water over everything. That settled the nurse further. FitzRoy ate well, but with half-closed eyes and he barely managed to finish his sweet before the eyes closed completely. Mistress Bethany was little better off. Denoriel urged her to go to her bed also, promising that he would keep watch.

  She accepted his assurance with heartfelt thanks, but when both were asleep, he swathed one hand in layers of silk and pulled the boy's cross from its pouch, arranging it to lie naked on FitzRoy's chest. Then he gathered the last remnants of his strength and cast a shield over FitzRoy and most of the bed. Afterward, he clung to the bedpost, eyes dim, shaking, drained nearly to his core.

  For a while he simply breathed, eyeing the glittering white lines of power that alone were clearly visible to him and seemed to waver toward him seductively. Not yet, he thought. Some day I may be desperate enough to take the chance of burning out my magic completely, but now I have Harry to guard.

  As some purely physical strength slowly came back to his muscles, the temptation receded; however, he knew that keeping watch in his present condition would be useless. He must go Underhill. Perhaps Mwynwen could do something to restore him or teach him how to absorb power a little faster.

  He left the room, saying to Gerrit and Dickson, who were on guard by the door in the corridor, that he needed to catch a breath of air. He knew they were tired, he added, but he begged them to be extra alert, at least until he returned. And then he walked around the side of the inn.

  Miralys was there, which was just as well because his shaking knees might not have carried him much further. How he got into the saddle—not the mortal-world leather and wood construction, but something Miralys himself created to hold him—he never knew. He had barely enough consciousness to tell the elvensteed to take him to Mwynwen. Freed of the restraints of looking or acting like a mortal horse, the elvensteed sped across the distance from Maidenhead to the nearest Gate in less than an hour.

  She greeted him with reservation, even with guarded hostility, blocking the doorway.

  "And what is it you want now?" she asked coldly.

  Tears stung Denoriel's eyes at the icy rejection. He would have retreated, but his need was too great; also he doubted his ability to leave with dignity. "My lady—" he faltered, in a voice like a croak. "—I fear I need your help—"

  Then she seemed to recognize his debilitated state and softened, reaching out to help him into the house.

  When she had told him to lie down on the bed in a small room well away from the chamber to which he had carried the changeling, she asked what he had been doing to so deplete his reserves. He told her of the goblin attack, watching her eyes widen in dismay.

  "If I had not had the lad with me—it would have been desperate. As it was, nothing came of it. But when we came to shelter, I had to shield Harry," he finished wearily. "I still have to. But I am—spent."

  She nodded vigorously to that b
ut then bit her lip and stood staring down at him as if she wished to sieve out his soul.

  After a while she sighed and began to pass her hands over him repeatedly, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, murmuring softly all the while. Denoriel knew it was a spell, but he could not make out the words no matter how closely he listened. And then she bound the spell to him so that it sank into flesh and bone, becoming part of him.

  Denoriel gasped in surprise at the flood of warmth and power that seemed to ooze from everywhere into him. He sat up, restored, and stared at her.

  "What? What did you do? I am filling with power like a well that has reached an underground river!"

  She smiled, but her eyes were sad. "It is indeed an ill wind that blows no one any good. That is a mortal saying—the child is full of mortal sayings. What I have given you is a spell I devised to feed power to poor Richey."

  "The child!" Denoriel exclaimed. "Oh, wonderful. Can it save him?"

  There was a little silence and then, her voice grown harsh in a way Denoriel had never heard, she said, "You cannot have him."

  Denoriel drew a sharp breath. So that was why she had nearly refused him entrance. She thought he had come for the child.

  "No," he said. "My lady, I have no wish for him. I have Harry. And I know Richey must stay with you. I fear even with the spell you have devised that he will never be strong—but I was saddened by the thought that he was made to be more fragile than even a mortal child, and that this would bring you sorrow."

  "No," she sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. "Even with the spell, I do not know how long . . ." Then she smiled. "But he is happy. He is like a bright-feathered bird, always chirping merrily, filled with one clever notion after another. The toys he loves best are those from which he can build other toys, and what he creates is wonderful."

  That gave Denoriel an idea for a present for Harry when it would be time to leave him . . . if he dared leave him. He stood up.

  "Would you like to see him?" Mwynwen asked. Her voice was uncertain as if she desperately wanted to show off her prize but was afraid seeing it would make Denoriel wish to seize it.

  "I do, but I daren't take the time," Denoriel said. "Later, perhaps. And it will be better when he is more settled with you, anyway. Let him know he is cherished by you first, and become secure in the knowledge. Then I will see him."

  Mwynwen nodded, but she did not move away from the door. "I hope you will not misuse what I have given you," she said. "An unlimited and quickly renewing source of power . . . That will give you a great advantage over most other Sidhe."

  "I am not a quarrelsome sort," Denoriel said, smiling, knowing that he had said exactly the right thing about the poor little changeling. "And most of my time is now spent in the mortal world where even this spell cannot gather power very well." He shook his head. "I must go back at once. Can you tell Aleneil about the goblin attack for me? If the Unseleighe are so desperate to seize poor Harry, I had better be there to defend him."

  "Yes, go," she urged, now looking anxious. "I cannot bear the thought of your Harry, so much like my Richey, in the hands of Vidal Dhu. And don't worry. I don't forget that they might be seeking Richey too. He is guarded by the strongest protections I can devise."

  They parted better friends, but Denoriel knew the special bond they had had no longer existed. He wondered, feeling his ears grow warm as he mounted Miralys, whether Mwynwen had wanted his loving or his youth? He was very young for a Sidhe. Had he been desired as a lover or as a substitute for a child? It was an embarrassing question, and Denoriel pushed it aside. He had not felt this well and strong since he had started visiting the mortal world. He should be grateful for what he had, not whining over what he had lost. There were elven women enough who would look on him with favor—and anyway, he had always known that one day she would lose interest in him. Few elven passions lasted forever—nor, in truth, would most Sidhe wish them to.

  He and Miralys took the Gate from Logres to Windsor, set to arrive just at the time he had left the inn. The elvensteed covered the distance from Windsor to Maidenhead in less than a quarter hour, so when Denoriel came round the corner of the inn, just enough time for a leisurely walk had passed.

  Even so, the guards were glad to see him. No one had tried to enter His Grace's chamber, they reported, but one man they did not recognize had passed down the corridor. He had not paused, only glancing once at them.

  Denoriel's teeth set for a moment. What had seemed to them a man passing without pausing could have meant they were blocked by a spell—but there was no lingering remnant of magic around either man. Although he was impatient, Denoriel thanked them for their alertness and urged them to let him know at once if the man passed by again. Then he hurried inside, but the shield he had set over FitzRoy showed no sign of tampering and the sleeping nurse was simply sleeping, not bespelled. He took the most comfortable chair in the room, gave it some extra padding with a pillow Harry had knocked to the floor, and sat down to watch out the night.

  No further disturbance troubled Denoriel that first night, but over the weeks it took them to reach Sheriff Hutton, he had cause again and again to thank Mwynwen and the spell she had bound to his being. The tiny-goblin attack was only the first of many dangers that struck their cortege.

  They found the students in Oxford rioting when they arrived in the town and had to fight their way to the castle. It was pure accident that Harry had been on Miralys with Denoriel when they entered Oxford. The road had been dull, but much less rutted than the stretch between Windsor and Maidenhead, so Harry had been riding in the carriage, playing games with his nurse. It happened that a game ended just as the town came in view, and Harry begged to be taken up on Miralys so he could see better.

  Mistress Bethany was nearly injured when a group of students surged over the coach. Had FitzRoy been riding in it, worse might have befallen. As it was, she boxed the ears of one so soundly that he shrieked and let go of the white kitten's basket. She kicked a second where he was most sensitive and shoved him over the coach's low side as he howled and curled over on himself. Then FitzRoy's guards converged on the vehicle and drove the students off with the flats of their blades while the air spirit shrieked into Denoriel's mind, :Possessed. Some are possessed:

  It was not afraid of mortals, however, and was merely amused by their attempts to seize it. That was just as well because it was willing to roam ahead of the cortege and a few days later warned Denoriel of caltrops scattered on the road. Denoriel promptly told Nyle a sad tale of a wool trader going north with a full purse who had lost it and several members of his party to outlaws who played that kind of trick. Nyle rode forward to warn the guardsmen. If he looked a little strangely at Denoriel when the caltrops were discovered, that was a lesser problem than having half the horses disabled.

  North of Leicester they were attacked by outlaws, but that might have been a normal hazard of traveling because the air spirit gave no warning. Even with Harry on his saddle, Denoriel managed to disable three. Other guards did as well. All those captured had their hands tied behind them and a rope around their necks by which they were dragged back to Leicester by four of the guardsmen.

  Two more attempts were aimed at the air spirit. One was foiled by the stubborn determination of the nurse not to part with her pet for any threat or blandishment and a second by Denoriel's untrained but genuine mage sight, which disclosed some near-invisible thing's stealthy approach. Denoriel's silver sword made quick work of the formless construct, which could whip out tentacles or extend itself to envelop and draw the not-quite insubstantial air spirit into its maw.

  To FitzRoy's guards, who were the only ones close enough to notice him stabbing and slashing at nothing with his sword he said he was doing some esoteric exercises. They all exchanged glances and then nodded, but they were particularly jumpy all the rest of the day and Gerrit twice asked the nurse if she felt cold or a breeze when the leaves were not moving.

  As they entered Nottingha
m, they lost two guards from the tail of the cortege. Without explanation, the chain holding the portcullis slipped off its hook and the heavy iron gate crashed down. It killed both horses and one man and took the arm from another. Denoriel was furious. Such an attack could not result in seizing Harry. The cruelty and wastefulness was typical of the Unseleighe, but he could only clutch Harry tighter and use his strength more lavishly to create shields. After Nottingham, one man was assigned to gallop through the gates of any town or castle where they were scheduled to stay and stand guard on the portcullis winch.

  No one was bored—that was for sure. The guardsmen were keenly alert, watching the road underfoot, the sides of the road, the branches of the trees overhead—from which, in a heavily wooded section past Doncaster a troop of rag-clad wild-men had dropped. FitzRoy's guards and Denoriel had borne the brunt of that attack, which was clearly aimed at the boy, but Nyle, Gerrit, Dickson, and Shaylor had given a good account of themselves and put six beyond doing any harm. Denoriel's knife put paid to another two, and Harry valiantly used his little knife to stab the hands of the one who tried to seize him.

  All the attacks ceased when they reached York. Possibly that was because by then, although they were all very tired, every man and woman was prepared to fight. Sir Christopher had grown more and more wary and now rode up and down along the cortege, watching for any oddity and urging even the servants to be prepared to defend themselves. And they were prepared. Denoriel thought gratefully that it would take a full-scale army to accomplish anything against them.

  Sir Christopher was not swift of wit, but once he got an idea he used it to the uttermost. At first, he had told Denoriel, as they sat over their wine one evening, he had accounted the attempts on the cortege as the natural result of riding through the overpopulated south with what was obviously a rich caravan; later, he said, he had come to realize that the attacks were aimed at the little duke of Richmond.