This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  They could be overrun by a rush of Unseleighe creatures who were more resistant to cold iron, both knew, but Denoriel had alerted a number of the Sidhe who guarded against Unseleighe attack, and they assured him there had been no troubling of the lower planes. Denoriel himself felt that even Vidal Dhu would not dare bring a large force against the princess's house.

  There was considerable local interest in the princess, and when the news of the king's accident spread, attentions fixed on Hatfield. It was expected that attempts would be made to conceal the king's death, if he should die. Thus, many watched to see if the queen would come to take her daughter or if any other large party arrived—such activity might well indicate that the king was dead.

  The belief and the curiosity made Denoriel reasonably sure the Unseleighe would not dare bring an army of horrors, which would be sure to be seen by so many watchers. If the princess then sickened and died, the priests would take over for the king and begin to preach against the unholy.

  Such guessing made Denoriel uncomfortable; disaster would follow if he were wrong. But he was not. He was right. The assault was signaled by an urgent knock on the door. Denoriel and FitzRoy hurried to the entrance of the first withdrawing room while the steward went to open the door.

  The person revealed was mortal to Denoriel's witch sight and was wearing royal livery, so he did not rush forward. The steward backed away to give one whom he assumed to be a messenger room to enter—and in the next moment dropped to the floor. Before Denoriel could react, Pasgen followed the enslaved and corrupted mortal through the front door. FitzRoy, sword drawn, leapt to intercept the man, who was hurrying toward the stair that led up to Elizabeth's chamber.

  Denoriel stepped forward to intercept Pasgen, who had clutched in one arm a dead thing that, aside from its red hair, hardly looked human. Behind Pasgen were two dark Sidhe, one of whom contemptuously raised a hand to cast either a spell or a levin bolt.

  "No lightnings!" Pasgen snarled, and cast his own spell.

  Denoriel did not even shake his head as the command to freeze rolled off his shield. Behind him, Denoriel heard a frightful squall. Pasgen uttered a violent obscenity and drew his sword, but he made no attempt to attack. Another spell hit Denoriel's shield, much weaker; Denoriel drew his own sword and was amazed to see that Pasgen was already retreating.

  Pasgen was not the swordsman that Denoriel was, but he was not so inept as to need to flee before they were engaged. Then Pasgen suddenly ducked sideways and threw the thing he had been carrying directly at Denoriel. Instinctively, Denoriel jumped back out of the way. In the same instant, the corner of his eye caught the second dark Sidhe drawing his bow and an odd hissing sounded almost in his ear.

  Denoriel thought that the hiss had been the elf-shot missing him and gasped with fear that the missile had been aimed at Harry. But before the thought had time to form, before he had a chance to turn his head and open himself to Pasgen's sword-thrust, the Sidhe with the bow had screamed, dropped to the ground, and went on screaming. The other Sidhe had disappeared.

  Pasgen shouted some curse and slammed his sword into its sheath. Denoriel knew he should act—but he could not think what to do. He dared not turn away to see what had happened to Harry. To rush at Pasgen and run him through was simply not possible. Whatever he thought of his half-brother, Pasgen was his brother, blood-kin. He could defend himself against him, but he could not attack him.

  Neither attack nor defense was necessary. Pasgen lifted the fallen, screaming Sidhe to his shoulder, raised a hand and pointed. Instinctively, Denoriel jumped back, gesturing for protection, but the spell was not directed at him. The door swung forward and slammed shut. Denoriel whirled around, unable—even if the closing door was an illusion and harm would befall him—to resist seeing if Harry had fallen.

  No harm physical had come to FitzRoy. He was standing just behind Denoriel, his mouth fixed in a grimace of horror, his throat working as he swallowed and swallowed to ward off sickness. His right arm was extended, and in his hand was the weird gun he had insisted that Denoriel buy in the Bazaar of the Bizarre.

  Denoriel turned to look at the door, but it was no illusion. It was solidly shut. He stepped forward and shot the heavy iron bolt, hissing as it burned his hand. Then he sheathed his sword and went to take Harry in his arms.

  "He was ahead. I couldn't reach him with my sword. I yelled for him to stop. I couldn't . . . I couldn't let him reach Elizabeth, so . . . so I shot him. He . . . he made that terrible noise and . . . and then . . . he . . . he fell in on himself and he . . . he turned . . . he turned to dust." FitzRoy's eyes were staring with horror. "The . . . the bolt. It's lying there in the dust."

  "Oh, what a fool Pasgen is," Denoriel muttered. He patted Harry's back. "He was very old, Harry. He would have been dust long ago, except for living . . . where he was living. Pasgen set a spell on him to keep him from . . . from going to what he should have been when he came here, and your iron bolt broke the spell."

  The boy shuddered in his arms. "That . . . that won't happen to Dunstan or Ladbroke, will it?" His eyes were sick with dread.

  Denoriel pushed FitzRoy back far enough so he could see his face. "No, of course not. They are both young men—at least no older than they look. That poor fellow must have been living centuries Underhill as a slave. We Seleighe Sidhe bring the children we save back to the mortal realms—if they wish it—as soon as they are grown. And if they do not wish to return, we never let them cross the wall between the worlds again." Then he realized just what FitzRoy had asked, and stared at him. "How did you know Dunstan and Ladbroke had been to my homeland?"

  "Ladbroke knew about Miralys, and Dunstan . . . the way he just accepts a lot of the things you do." FitzRoy sighed. "The way you never try to hide anything from him." Then he shuddered again. "The baby is dead, isn't it?" Tears stood in his eyes.

  "Baby?" Denoriel echoed, his glance leaping to the stairwell, but it was empty, Blanche and the guards keeping tight watch on Elizabeth; they had been instructed to ignore any noise or disturbance and they had obeyed.

  FitzRoy had gently pulled free of Denoriel's hold and gone to kneel by a small, cold body.

  "Don't," Denoriel said.

  It was too late. FitzRoy had already turned the poor thing over and he gasped and snatched back his hand in horror. Denoriel ran into the eating parlor and came back with a tablecloth. There was nothing recognizable except the red hair. The features had already melted into a vague pudding of rotting flesh—pits for eyes, holes where the nose should be, and a sunken black hollow for a mouth. The limbs looked soft, boneless. Denoriel threw the cloth over the poor thing and wrapped it firmly.

  "How could it rot so fast?" FitzRoy whispered, his voice shaking.

  "Because it was never given life, only formed roughly." Denoriel pulled FitzRoy to his feet. "I'm sorry you had to see that, but it was never a living person, Harry. It was just molded out of the mist of one of the places you know. It was as if you made a clay horse, didn't fire it, and then left it out in the rain. Only enough power was used to hold the mist together, and when it drained away the form began to dissolve."

  FitzRoy breathed deeply and raised his eyes from the wrapped bundle to meet Denoriel's gaze. "Will the Sidhe I shot fall apart too? God's Blood, how he screamed!"

  Denoriel snorted. "No, he's just more used to hurting others than to being hurt. He'll go on howling until they get him to a healer who will soothe away the pain." Then Denoriel smiled. "You probably saved my life, Harry. If the elf-shot had hit me, I would have been badly injured if not killed."

  FitzRoy was rapidly regaining his composure, far more quickly than Denoriel would have thought. "I was afraid of that. That's why I shot him. I had just almost vowed never to use the gun again when I saw what it did, but I couldn't let him shoot you, Denno."

  "I'm glad you didn't. Elf-shot is not to be dismissed lightly. And I never thought about it because . . ." He shook his head. It was too unpleasant to admit aloud that he had cou
nted on his brother not wishing to inflict any permanent damage on him . . . and been wrong. He forced a smile. "Don't worry too much. I just had forgotten to tell you what to do if I am hurt. All you need do is see that I'm loaded aboard Miralys. He'll make sure I don't fall off and will take me to a healer."

  FitzRoy breathed out, a long, relieved sigh. "Miralys knows where to go?" He laughed shakily. "Of course he does."

  A soft groan drew Denoriel's attention and he bent and scooped up the swaddled form. The steward was stirring. A gesture brought Harry's attention to the man.

  "Pick up your bolt and scuffle that dust around, it's too man-shaped," Denoriel said. "I'm going to slip out and . . . and take care of this poor thing. And, for the sake of all the gods, don't dare mislay that gun. I had no idea it was going to be so effective. We may need it again."

  For a time, however, that likelihood continued to recede. The next afternoon brought the news that the king was no longer in danger and would soon be recovered completely. That put off the need to be specially watchful—or at least, FitzRoy and Denoriel thought, until the spring when Anne's baby should be born . . .

  And then tragedy struck again. Queen Anne miscarried of a boy child long enough in the womb to be identifiable but too unripe to be saved.

  Early morning on the twenty-ninth of January, a message arrived summoning Fagildo Otstargi to attend on Privy Councilor Cromwell at once. The ugly manservant who had met Cromwell's messenger at the door took the message, nodded his head, and closed the door in the messenger's face. He went down into the cellar rather than up to the magician's bedchamber, and walked into a dark corner, from which he did not emerge.

  Pasgen cursed fluently when he heard the alarm that heralded an arrival from the London Gate into the prison room below his house. He Gated into the room, took the message and read it, and cursed more fluently. The manservant cringed away, trembling. Pasgen hardly noticed, but he waved at the wall and the Gate to London reopened. The bound being sidled through, weeping with relief.

  Barely a quarter hour later, Pasgen himself disguised and dressed as Fagildo Otstargi, stepped through the London gate, but to the terminus in his bedchamber rather than in the cellar. He came down the stairs, swinging a heavy furred cloak over his shoulder. A horse—not Torgan—was waiting, being walked up and down the street. Pasgen did not even glance at the manservant, who held the door open, plastered flat against the wall.

  A few moments later, he was at Cromwell's door. A groom rushed out to take his horse, the door opened at once, before he knocked, and the house steward himself ushered him through the cold withdrawing rooms and into a small private chamber. There a bright fire burned in the hearth and Cromwell, wrapped in a furred robe, looked up at him with a tight, drawn expression and informed him that Anne had miscarried.

  Pasgen's heart leapt up with relief. He had known that his attempt to abduct Elizabeth would fail, and he had protested about the half-formed changeling that Vidal had thrust upon him. If he had been successful in snatching the child and left that thing behind, even the most lack-witted would know it for a magical construct. Pasgen feared that King Oberon would kill him, or, worse, dismind him.

  As the thought came to Pasgen, Vidal had smoothly offered to summon a selection of bogans to help him if he wanted them. Bogans! To add to the chance of exposure. Pasgen realized that inciting Oberon to fury was exactly what Vidal hoped for. As a spell worker Pasgen knew he was rapidly approaching Vidal's power, and even if Vidal did not guess that Pasgen was considering challenging him for control of Caer Mordwyn, Vidal wanted no rivals in power. If Oberon destroyed Pasgen it would be no insupportable loss to Vidal Dhu. In fact, Pasgen assumed Vidal hoped he could still control Rhoslyn, control her better with her support gone.

  Pasgen was about to refuse flatly, but to his surprise Aurilia raised a finger and waggled it. It was a signal that if Vidal took Pasgen's refusal as a challenge, she would support Vidal. Pasgen knew that even with Rhoslyn to back him he would not survive a confrontation with both Vidal and Aurilia—and neither would Rhoslyn.

  It was entirely possible, Pasgen had thought, that Aurilia also wanted him destroyed because she did not think she could control him as well or as easily as she controlled Vidal. So he would do as Vidal ordered; he would make the attempt, knowing he would fail.

  It had been easy enough to make the decision, but the taste of defeat was no pleasant thing. And the shambles produced was worse than Pasgen had expected. One of the few mortals the Unseleighe could trust was dead beyond recall, one Sidhe very near death, one Sidhe that hated him with a terrible icy fury for seeing his cowardice exposed. Bitter in the mouth and bitter in the mind.

  Pasgen had been soundly castigated for his ineffectuality, which did not improve his temper even though he had had no intention of succeeding. He had returned to his domain and brooded furiously. His mistakes were clear enough now. For one thing, he had misjudged Denoriel again. He suspected he had been right about the greatest force being concentrated right around the child—Pasgen ground his teeth—but he had no proof of that because he had never got past the front door.

  There was the first mistake. He had expected his "heroic" half-brother to be vainglorious enough to confront him alone. His second error was to believe that Denoriel would count only on his swordsmanship; he had not expected his half-brother's shields to be so strong. The third mistake was still to think of FitzRoy as a child. Pasgen snarled silently. FitzRoy acted like a child, always playing with toys with the baby princess. But the weapon FitzRoy wielded was no childish toy.

  Remembered rage tightened Pasgen's jaw, a happy accident so appropriate it was like an omen that events would now conspire to help him. The news of Anne's miscarriage might not be welcome to Cromwell, although Pasgen was not sure he could always read the man aright, but it was a soft consolation to Pasgen's ears and light to his eyes.

  Now Aurilia could loose the toy she had so carefully prepared; Anne Boleyn would be destroyed, her daughter would be despised and abandoned, and Oberon would have no further interest in the child. It would even be possible that Denoriel and FitzRoy, realizing that she would never be queen, never bring in the age of puny mortal beauty and invention, would give over their ferocious protection of Elizabeth.

  Thought is swift. Pasgen's grimace looked like shock while actually relief and conjecture had flashed through his mind. Now he need make no reply to Cromwell's announcement; he merely bowed stiffly.

  "Why did you not warn me?" Cromwell snarled, his mellifluous voice for once harsh and uneven.

  "Because there were ten futures in my glass—in three the king died; in three the queen bore a fine healthy son; in three more she lost the child; and in one she lost her head! Which of those did you want me to describe to you? On which do you think it would have been safe to plan?"

  Cromwell hissed between his teeth. "Then you say you can be of no use to me?"

  Pasgen shrugged. "I can look again in the glass. Now that we know only three of the futures I saw can apply, I can try to make sure which of those is most likely. Even so, what you do can take into consideration all three."

  "And when will I know which way to direct my efforts?" Cromwell sounded desperate; well, he should. He had hitched his wagon to a star that fell, not once, but twice now. He had managed to survive Wolsey's fall; he must be scrambling to think of a way to survive Queen Anne's.

  "A few days, a week, perhaps even two weeks—but there is no hurry. The king is still convalescing; the queen must be nearly insensible with sorrow and fear." Pasgen forced himself to sound soothing. "For now, only the most formal expressions of grief and regret need be dispatched. But in that one image . . . the one where the queen lost her head . . . there was another woman standing with the king."

  "Jane Seymour," Cromwell said. "Soft and sweet on the outside, but a Seymour for all that."

  "Nonetheless—" Pasgen moved closer so that he could murmur very softly into Cromwell's ear "—think on a way to suggest to the king
that his second marriage was also accursed because he had a living wife."

  Cromwell's jaw tightened. "That will be no easy thing without also touching on the king's assumption of supreme power over the English Church."

  "No, no," Pasgen said. "Those two things are totally separate. That one led to the other, is irrelevant. Leave all matters of the Church aside. Now Catherine is dead. If no wife were alive, any new marriage would need no intervention by the Church. Such a marriage must be perfectly clean and holy and the children will be blessed."

  Cromwell stared at Pasgen, his face expressionless. Somewhere within, however, Pasgen sensed a kind of satisfaction and was content. Although the mortal had worked assiduously to rid the king of his first marriage to make way for his second, that was largely to advance his own interest with the king. He had never really liked Anne or her family.

  Possibly Cromwell blamed Queen Anne for his old master, Wolsey's, downfall. Likely there were political reasons, some possible rapprochement with Imperial interests and a drawing away from the French. Pasgen was not interested; he cared nothing for England. All he desired was the downfall of Anne so that he could abduct her child. So far Pasgen was satisfied. Whatever the reason, he believed Cromwell was ready to turn on Anne; that was all Pasgen cared about.

  Both were silent for a moment. They had been talking treason, and for entirely different reasons both were uneasy. Pasgen bowed.

  "When I have news, I will come again."

  He took care that no one in Cromwell's house saw the grin that stretched his lips for a moment, but he was grinning again all the way back to his own residence, and still grinning when, Underhill, he summoned one of his dead-eyed servitors and gave him a message for Aurilia nic Morrigan.