This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  By the end of the week Aleneil rode in. She was pale and tired and merely shook her head at the men who greeted her. "Nothing," she said. "The same images over and over—a boy child, and a harsh and dour rule, but not the disaster of the Inquisition, at least, not immediately. No image of Elfhame Logres, no joy, no music or wonderful performances. That is one. Another you know, it shows the fires of the Inquisition and two on the throne, a sad, dark-haired woman, much swollen in the belly and a thin, fair, pallid-faced man with a small, pursed red mouth."

  "The image of the red-haired ruler is gone?" FitzRoy asked anxiously.

  "No. That also is as it was, but there was one new thing. In the second image—that of the two rulers—distantly behind those on the throne is the red-haired woman, but not as a ruler. There is a threat over her."

  There was a brief silence while Denoriel and FitzRoy considered what that might mean, then FitzRoy reverted to their present problem.

  "But no hint of any attack on Elizabeth?"

  Aleneil shook her head. "Nothing. No image of the child at all."

  "As if she did not exist?" Denoriel asked, his voice higher than usual.

  Aleneil looked stricken. If the child had been abducted and was being held in a shielded domain to prevent any attempt at rescue, she might not be revealed at all with an attempt to scry her or FarSee about her.

  "No," she said finally, her voice somewhat uncertain. "More as if I were asking the wrong questions."

  But if those were the wrong questions, no one could think of the right ones.

  The tension in the merchant's house increased, but nothing seemed to happen. At least Lady Bryan still had not returned from London, so FitzRoy and the air spirit could spend most of every day with Elizabeth and every night in the small side room. Mercifully the weather was terrible—sometimes FitzRoy thought the heavens wept for the bright spirit gone from the earth—but at least it kept Elizabeth indoors and eliminated any fear of being attacked by a large party.

  Another week shuffled by on leaden feet. Denoriel was beginning to question his assumptions about what the Unseleighe would do when, on Friday afternoon, Blanche Parry crept into the merchant's house by the back door, calling silently for help.

  They heard that "call" long before Blanche reached the door, and their state of heightened alert sent a surge of energy into all of them. Both Aleneil and Denoriel rushed into the kitchen to meet her and draw her into a quiet corner.

  "I cannot stay," she said. "I have sent him away on an errand, but I do not know how long it will keep him."

  "Who?" Denoriel asked; he knew most of those who served Elizabeth.

  "Jack Chandler," Blanche replied, her face pale with anxiety. "The serving-man attached to the pr-Lady Elizabeth's apartment. There is something wrong with him."

  "A changeling?" Aleneil suggested.

  Blanche shook her head. "No. No. I'm sure I'd feel that. The man's mortal enough but he . . . he doesn't act like Jack."

  "Harry is there?" Denoriel asked.

  "Oh, yes, with the—the whatever it is that lingers by him—it worried me at first, but Elizabeth loves it. She laughs and laughs and tries to catch it in her hands, so I am sure it is a good thing. If His Grace were not there I would not have dared leave." She took a shuddering breath. "He can keep Jack away from milady with his sword, but he has no magic. I must go back. And I fear—"

  "Yes, you fear rightly," Denoriel told her. "Go back, and tell him tonight may be the time. I will send over Ladbroke and Dunstan and he is somehow to keep them with him. Aleneil and I will come soon. We will wait for him in the little chamber in which he has been sleeping."

  The maid nodded and darted out.

  "You think they will make an attempt on Elizabeth tonight?" Aleneil asked.

  "Or tomorrow," Denoriel replied, with an inner stab of certainty that made him want to run for Hatfield that very moment. "I doubt Vidal would expose his servant for longer than he must. He would fear exactly what did happen, that someone would notice something unnatural about the substitute. Only we are lucky to have Blanche who knows we will listen to her. Most others, even if they noticed something strange, would hold their tongues at first, assuming that the man did not feel well or was troubled about something."

  "There may be others in the house that no one has noticed," Aleneil said, slowly.

  Denoriel nodded. "I will tell Dunstan and Ladbroke to go separately and as inconspicuously as possible and then find a place to hide. You and I will come in with a delivery wearing the Don't-see-me spell. Nyle and Gerrit are already on the premises, hopefully keeping watch on Harry."

  "We will have to get them into Harry's room one at a time so I can renew the amulet that guards against sleep spells." Aleneil bit her lip. "Is there anything we can do to shield them? If not, they will be useless. I am sure Pasgen is perfectly capable of bespelling them into freezing or Dannae knows what else."

  "I have shields on them already, have had for years," he said with grim pleasure. "I will strengthen them and my own to the fullest I can."

  The plan worked with remarkable ease. Denoriel would have been more uncomfortable and suspicious than he was already, if the guard at the back door had not come alert as he and Aleneil sidled past the small two-wheel cart a farmer's boy was pushing into the scullery. The guard looked hard at the boy and the cart and right and left of the cart—by then it was too late—Aleneil and Denoriel were inside. He even looked behind himself in their direction, but his eyes would not fix on them.

  So at least one of the guards was safe.

  Through the kitchen into a wide back corridor where servants carrying trays could pass in safety, through a wide door into the front entryway. The guard there did not notice them at all, and they mounted the stairs, careful to tread near the wall so they would not creak. Equally carefully along the upper corridor to the door of the room FitzRoy had described. Safe inside the chamber, Denoriel dropped the Don't-see-me spell. He knew he would have many drains on his power that night.

  Then they waited. For what, they did not know.

  Only that, whatever it was—the fate of Seleighe realms and mortal depended on their success.

  CHAPTER 33

  When the light began to fail, FitzRoy read to Elizabeth while she had her bread and milk, then kissed her good night and withdrew to his chamber. How he had managed to keep a calm and cheerful face for her, he did not know, for his insides were all a-roil with tension. From a crack in the door, Gerrit watched the corridor. Once the false manservant came along it and scratched on the door of Elizabeth's outer chamber.

  They all tensed.

  Gerrit drew his sword and prepared to fling open the door and leap into the corridor. Behind him the soft slither of more swords being drawn surely gave him confidence. However, Jack Chandler did not enter the room; he merely called to Blanche for the tray. The supper tray was handed out, and he went back down the corridor to the stairs.

  Soon after Chandler came up again carrying small lit torchettes, which he set into holders in the corridor. He glanced toward the door of FitzRoy's chamber, where Harry himself was watching, but Gerrit had left barely a crack, not visible to Chandler, and the man went downstairs again. Then, FitzRoy left his room as quietly as possible and went to Elizabeth's apartment where he scratched softly and was admitted.

  Now it was his turn to guard the door.

  After him, more carefully, more silently, one by one the others followed. As they approached the door, it opened and FitzRoy himself, sword in hand, let them in. Last of all came Denoriel and his sister. By now the tension among them practically made the air hum.

  In low tones they discussed the best disposition of their limited force. Aleneil wanted to lock the door to Elizabeth's inner chamber and meet their opponents where they were, but FitzRoy pointed out that there was no lock on the door of the inner chamber. Moreover, there were windows in the room through which the Sidhe and their unsavory creatures could come and also there was a side-entrance t
hat went to a dressing chamber, which opened onto an inner, servants' corridor.

  Without more ado, they locked the door to the main corridor, left Gerrit and Nyle on guard, and withdrew to the night nursery. Locking the outer door was more to provide a warning than any expectation of defense. The steward had a key, of course, and if the night guard was now one of the Unseleighe, that key would doubtless be in his hand. So, if the key turned in the lock, an enemy was on the way.

  And they waited, the sour taste of fear in their mouths, as the palace quieted and servants went to bed.

  Even so, when, some hours later, the door opened and Nyle and Gerrit saw old, familiar faces—the footman who had served the princess for years and the night guard, also an old servant—and Gerrit hesitated . . .

  For seeing people he knew, he could not simply thrust forward with the sword in his hand.

  He was lucky he had drawn it when the lock turned, however, because the guard did not hesitate. He lunged, driving Gerrit back and away from the door, attacking in utter silence.

  Jack Chandler rushed through the space provided toward the door to the inner chamber. "Chandler, you dog! Stop!" Nyle shouted, and followed at the run, but he was a few steps behind and Chandler wrenched open the door and dashed toward Elizabeth's small, curtained bed.

  Nyle, slightly longer-legged, caught up, but he, too, hesitated, because Chandler did not have a weapon in hand. Thus, he did not thrust through Chandler's back and kill him; instead he slapped him hard with the flat of his sword.

  Screeching an unintelligible curse, Chandler drew his sword and swung around, flailing at Nyle.

  At that moment, they all made the fatal mistake of being distracted, and the rest of Vidal Dhu's party rushed unimpeded into the room.

  FitzRoy howled a warning. Vidal, almost contemptuously, cast a shower of small knives at Denoriel, who had dropped the bedcurtain and turned to face him from the foot of Elizabeth's bed. Sword in one hand, strange silvery object in the other, FitzRoy stood at the left near the head of the bed.

  Seeing that "toy," Pasgen hesitated and found himself pushed sideways to the right by the two Sidhe behind him. One simply glanced contemptuously at Pasgen and ducked away from him around the foot of the bed. His sword was still in its sheath, and he carried a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. The second Sidhe loped past Vidal, who had watched in some astonishment as the knives, which should have sliced Denoriel into a quivering lump of screaming flesh, had simply disintegrated.

  "Damn you!" Vidal prepared another vicious spell, making preparatory gestures only to see Denoriel draw his sword and advance on him. Vidal laughed, and FitzRoy trembled; the closer Denoriel was, the more easily he would be made into a target.

  But it was too late to do anything—that strange Sidhe had just discovered him. He drew his sword.

  Aurilia had slipped into the room after Pasgen. Aleneil started forward to intercept her from where she had waited, half watching the door to the dressing room in case there was a double attack, but Aurilia was too quick. She sidled around Chandler and Nyle, who were slashing and hacking at each other, her gaze fixed on Elizabeth's bed opposite to where FitzRoy had engaged a very surprised Sidhe and was fighting him to a standstill.

  Aleneil stepped away from the wall to follow Aurilia only to be confronted by Rhoslyn, who threatened her with, of all things, a sword. Thoroughly infuriated, Aleneil hissed out the strongest defensive spell she knew and pointed at Rhoslyn's sword. That promptly began to glow, bright red . . . orange . . . yellow . . . white. Rhoslyn shrieked a curse and dropped the weapon. She did not reach for the knife in her belt, probably knowing that any weapon she touched now would turn on her. Instead she leapt at Aleneil, nails growing into talons on hands crooked into claws.

  Aurilia had paid no attention to the fighting, cursing men around her. She went directly to Elizabeth's bed and pulled aside the curtain. She saw the cross on Elizabeth's breast but felt only a slight discomfort. Brows drawn into a puzzled frown, she reached toward the child, only to have her hand stop. She pushed, but the shield under her hand resisted as firmly as a pane of glass—only breaking it would take a lot more effort.

  Aurilia's lips folded tightly together and she extended her senses toward the shield that protected Elizabeth. She would have to find its key and open it before they could seize the child. Completely concentrated on the shield, she was not aware of a movement in the shadow of the dressing room door. A moment later she was not aware of anything at all, as a large, heavy candelabrum crashed down on her head.

  Blanche Parry smiled triumphantly and quickly bent to pull Aurilia back into the dressing room. She glanced around, but saw with trepidation that there was little more she could do to help the others. She would have no protection against the increasingly virulent magics that the black-haired Sidhe was using against Lord Denno and no spell she knew would touch that Sidhe, she was sure. His Grace of Richmond was more than holding his own; the Sidhe fighting him was bleeding from several wounds. The blond Sidhe, who looked so much like Lord Denno, seemed to be no threat to anyone. He was staring at the wall beyond where the two Sidhe women were grappling like a couple of angry fishwives.

  There were too many combating pairs for Blanche to do anything to help, but she would go to help the female who was Denno's and FitzRoy's friend when—or if—she could. For now, she had something else more important to do. She was going to remove one threat, at least, from her darling Elizabeth for a long time, if not for good. This Sidhe she had rendered senseless, had great power, almost as much as the black-haired Sidhe fighting Lord Denno. Well, soon her power would be useless.

  Blanche sank to the floor and removed from around her neck a black chain from which ten little iron crosses dangled. Smiling grimly, she sat squarely on the Sidhe's chest, holding her down, lifted her head, and wrapped the necklace tightly around her forehead. Even unconscious, Aurilia began to moan and struggle. Blanche held her fast. On Aurilia's forehead ten crosses began to redden and blister. Blanche began sing very softly, a spell that soothed the mind by wiping from it all complex and unsettling thoughts. But it was not a spell that could be hurried.

  On the wall Pasgen had been staring at appeared a black spot, at the same time utterly dark and dazzlingly brilliant. Pasgen looked toward his sister, who had screamed with rage and frustration as Aleneil's skin turned dull silver and Rhoslyn's claws broke against it. The spot on the wall hesitated, began to shrink. Pasgen drew his mind from the battles around him and concentrated. The spot began to enlarge into a dead-black oval, but if one looked hard with witch-sight, one could make out the glints of red and gold of Vidal's throne room far, far back.

  With one last word, Pasgen fixed the Gate he had built to carry Elizabeth away to hold until he terminated it. It would draw power from him, he knew, which would limit the magic he could do, but it would not limit his physical acts. Pasgen turned back to aid his sister, but hesitated, unsure of how to intervene. Rhoslyn was attempting to gouge out Aleneil's eyes while Aleneil had her hands wound in Rhoslyn's hair and was threatening to pull off Rhoslyn's scalp.

  Dunstan and Ladbroke had been waiting in the darkened dressing room watching the door to the servants' corridor. When they heard the sound of fighting, they were torn between the need to watch for a secondary attack and the more immediate need to join the battle. It only took a few moments to decide because the door to the dressing room had an iron bolt. Dunstan checked to make sure it was shot firmly home, and both men rushed toward the fighting.

  They barely saved themselves from tripping over Blanche, warned by her soft singing. Both shivered and parted right and left around the writhing, whimpering body and the shut-eyed smiling nursemaid. They emerged just in time to see a blond Sidhe who looked very much like Denoriel reach out to seize Lady Aleneil, who had grown a strange silver skin and was wrestling on the floor with another female Sidhe.

  Two men burst into the room and Pasgen whirled to face them, backing away to cast a sleep spell, which had n
o effect, and then one of paralysis, which rolled off their shields. Uttering a string of obscenities, he drew his sword and blocked their thrusts, but he knew he could not hold both men off for long. He was probably a better swordsman than either, but together they were too much for him. He continued to back away toward the closest concentration of Dark Court fighters.

  Denoriel was still fighting sword-to-sword with Vidal Dhu. The Unseleighe lord's face was sickly pallid with two crimson spots high on his cheekbones. His eyes were almost as red; his mouth was distorted by fury. He had his sword in hand, but had obviously been mostly unsuccessful in blocking Denoriel's cuts and thrusts because he was bleeding freely from a number of small wounds.

  Those were less owing to bad swordsmanship than to a lack of concentration. Most of Vidal's attention was on throwing spells at Denoriel. Little shining knives, ribbons of light, threads of poisonous worms, balls of light that burst over Denoriel's head and ran down over his shields. Those shields were not what they were at the beginning of this fight, because Vidal's spells were not totally ineffectual. Each new assault wore away at Denoriel's protection and he had to renew it. And he began to wonder, at the back of his mind, which of them would run out of power first.

  FitzRoy had managed to drive the Sidhe who had attacked him down the full length of Elizabeth's bed. He cursed in a fluid sing-song under his breath because the elf was just good enough that FitzRoy was unable to finish him off. He could have shot him, of course; the iron-bolt-throwing gun was in his hand, but he could not stop hearing the screams of that other Sidhe he had shot and he could not make himself pull the trigger.