There was a shriek of pain from the outer chamber. No one except Nyle cared. Nyle heard, but he could not finish off Chandler and go to help his friend. Chandler was far more powerful than he looked and a much better swordsman than any manservant should be. Nyle's moment of inattention was costly. Chandler beat his sword aside and thrust. Nyle twisted away, but the blade slid along his ribs and he cried out in pain.
"Coming!"
That was Gerrit's voice. Nyle could feel blood running down his side and he called again. Gerrit's blade beat aside Chandler's return stroke. Nyle slipped under his guard. Gerrit ran him through. They both stood for a moment, panting, and then guiltily looked for their master. He was still fighting gamely, although he was now dripping sweat. Both men looked for the quickest way to him.
Just beyond them a black-haired devil was holding a sword in one hand and making throwing motions with the other. Things seemed to crawl over Lord Denno and then drop to the ground or disappear. Lord Denno had his sword out; he had wounded the other man. Beyond him someone who looked a lot like Lord Denno was fighting with Ladbroke and Dunstan.
Nyle and Gerrit consulted each other with a quick glance. They would never get through that way. Both looked toward the other side of the room and, simultaneously let out roars of rage. Another one of those blond demons was sneaking toward their master's back. He had a bundle in one arm, but the other hand held a bared sword and there could be no doubt that he intended to stab His Grace in the back.
Ten strides took them across to him, still shouting, and he whirled to face them, parrying the blows launched at him not only with his sword but with the thick bundle in his left arm. Nyle's sword slid along his opponent's and the tip touched him. He shrieked with pain, which startled Nyle so much—because he hadn't actually wounded the man, only touched him—that he jerked back.
Gerrit stepped smoothly in front of him, thrusting. Again the bundle was thrust into the sword's path; it stuck, and while Gerrit struggled to pull it free, Nyle attempted to stab his opponent over that awkward shield. He thrust so hard that his sword went right through and nicked the body behind. The long-eared creature squalled with pain, dropped the bundle, and began to shout the same unintelligible phrase over and over while slashing so furiously with his sword that neither Nyle nor Gerrit could close on him.
That Sidhe had been infused with great power, which he was supposed to feed to the changeling just before he placed it in Elizabeth's bed. But the changeling was dead now, stabbed many times by steel swords. Doubtless he would be punished for that, but the pain of the scratches he had already received was so great that his master's punishment faded in comparison to his fear of being wounded by steel. He took the power he had been given and wrapped a spell of sleeping in it and cast it at the men who fought him.
Nyle hesitated and shook his head. His eyes closed; he fought them open, and they drifted closed again. He fought it because he saw Gerrit wavering on his feet. He tried to raise his sword, lest the person they were fighting take advantage of this overpowering lassitude and skewer them. Since he knew that in another moment he would not be able to use the sword, he gripped it near the hilt by the blade and threw it. He never knew whether or not he had hit his target, only that it squalled again, as the lassitude overcame him and he dropped to the floor.
FitzRoy had been unaware of the Sidhe who intended to take him from the back until he heard his men call a warning. He turned then, so he could watch better while still keeping most of his attention on the Sidhe he was fighting. It was not a good plan, and he would have been dead in a few minutes, except that the Sidhe had seen something that distracted him as much. Vidal Dhu was down on his knees and over him, with one hand extended, stood a figure that glowed and crackled with white lightning.
Hastily the Sidhe disengaged and leapt back, actually dropping his sword as he pulled his small bow out of the spell-protected sheath in which he carried it. From a pocket in the sheath, he pulled a shaft. He nocked the short arrow with an evilly gleaming head and drew the bow. FitzRoy saw that the elf-shot was aimed directly at Denoriel. He leapt forward, shouting, and slammed his sword across the Sidhe's arm. The bolt flew wide.
Pasgen heard FitzRoy's shout of warning and turned his head. His eyes went wide as he saw the bow swing in his direction. He flung himself sideways, screamed as Dunstan's steel sword nicked his forearm, but it was not the pain of the iron touching him that wrenched the cry from him. To his horror he realized that the elf-shot had passed between the two mortals attacking him and struck his right shoulder, and the pain that screamed through him was unbearable.
* * *
Rhoslyn heard Pasgen scream. She launched a terrific blow at Aleneil and then thrust her away with all the strength she had. Aleneil, unable to avoid the blow completely, was rocked off balance and staggered back, raising her arms to guard herself and launch a blow of her own, but Rhoslyn's attack had ended. She rushed to Pasgen and fell on her knees beside him.
FitzRoy's cry had another, more disastrous, effect. His voice drew Denoriel's attention. The bolt of white lightning, that Denoriel had been about to loose on Vidal hung suspended for just a breath, but in that breath Vidal had lunged to his feet and muttered a spell. Poison now glistened along the blade of his sword, and that blade was only a few fingers'-breadth from Denoriel's throat.
Because he was watching to be sure that the elf-shot had not hit his Denno, FitzRoy saw the new danger. Without a regret, the silvery gun rose. The iron bolt hit Vidal Dhu with such force that it flung him backward. He began to shriek, his voice warbling with agony, but his head struck the floor forcefully, mercifully stunning him into silence.
The strange Sidhe with the crossbow cried out and, unthinking in his fury, nocked another elf-shot, turning the bow on FitzRoy. FitzRoy flung back his head to clear the hair from his eyes. To the Sidhe's vision, the blue star suddenly visible on his forehead gleamed, almost pulsing with energy against the threat of elf-shot. Simultaneously, FitzRoy raised his gun. The Sidhe cried, "No!" and tried to fling away his bow, but the bowstring snapped forward, the nocked shaft flew the short distance between the Sidhe and FitzRoy and the bolt struck FitzRoy full in the chest.
There was no force behind the bolt, it did not penetrate even past FitzRoy's clothing, but elf-shot was deadly stuff, and needed only to touch a mortal to harm.
The bolt fell to the ground. FitzRoy coughed once, wetly, tried to draw a deep breath, and could not. The air rattled in his throat, but the gun was steady, trained on the Sidhe before him.
"No, please!" the Sidhe cried, raising empty hands.
The room was almost quiet. Keeping the gun leveled at the Sidhe, FitzRoy looked around. There was nothing to fight for any more. The mortal who was supposed to remove Elizabeth's cross was dead. The Sidhe who had been fighting Nyle and Gerrit huddled on the floor, moaning with the pain of steel-poisoned wounds. Rhoslyn had lost all interest in Elizabeth; she knelt by her brother, trying to block both the poison of the steel-inflicted wound and the elf-shot. Blood gleamed wetly on Vidal Dhu's black doublet; he was unconscious but still breathing.
FitzRoy saw movement by the door to the dressing room. He stepped back so he could cover both the Sidhe and that doorway, but it was Blanche Parry, dragging Aurilia by the feet. He looked at the Sidhe.
"I can kill you all," he said, lifting the gun, fighting the strange tightness and pain in his chest, "and remove your ears so there will be no hint you are not mortal. Then my men will bury you, and you will be no embarrassment. Or, you can remove the living—and go—"
Rhoslyn had turned her head to listen and rose to her feet. "Quick. Help me with Pasgen and I will help you with the others. We can use the Gate Pasgen built, but hurry. I don't know how long it will last with him unconscious."
The Sidhe cast a nervous glance at FitzRoy, but he nodded and gestured with the gun. Pasgen was quickly moved through the Gate, then Rhoslyn and the Sidhe carried Vidal Dhu through it. The Sidhe moaning over his steel-poisoned wounds
was dragged to his feet by his unsympathetic companion and shoved through the gate. Rhoslyn returned, stood beside the sole unwounded Sidhe, and looked to see if there were any more survivors.
"Here," Blanche called, "don't forget this one," shoving the limp, softly moaning Aurilia in his direction. "Nor this." Her face hardened as she picked up the still-covered bundle and thrust it at Rhoslyn. "Remember," she added, as Rhoslyn took the blanket-wrapped changeling, dead before it had ever been awakened to life, not ungently into her arms. "I can smell them at twenty feet, and there's always this." She lifted the black iron necklace with its dangling crosses. Rhoslyn shrank back. "Look at that other one when she wakes up, if she wakes up, and decide whether it's worth it to try again."
"To me she is not," Rhoslyn snarled. "But I do not rule."
Rhoslyn turned on the words and ran through the Gate, following the Sidhe with Aurilia. Blanche's eyes following her, widened as she saw the empty blackness. She wrenched one of the crosses from her necklace and threw it into the void. A moment later there was a violent flash. Plaster rained down from the wall and a blackened area of lathe showed behind it.
Blanche bit her lip. That those who wished ill to her princess could come through solid walls had not before occurred to her. The cross had solved the problem. She would need to have more made, larger and heavier, since she would not need to wear them, and she would need to put some kind of warning spell, possibly a warding spell too, on the wall. But it was no immediate problem. The demons would need time to lick their wounds. And meanwhile . . . Blanche went to kneel between Nyle and Gerrit and began to whisper the spell to wake them.
Denoriel was dying. He knew it. He was only dimly aware of Aleneil kneeling beside him, her hands on his chest, holding back the worst of the agony of burned-out channels of power. His whole body burned. He had been full when he confronted Vidal Dhu and his shields had been layer upon layer, the strongest he could build. But Vidal was strong, stronger than he thought—having assumed wrongly that the dark magics were weaker than the bright—and his shields had melted away under the repeated assaults.
He had had no choice but to draw in the white lightning magic of the mortal world, but he had been careful at first, taking only enough to keep his shields high. He knew he could not fight Vidal with spells and did not try. He had hoped to distract him and defeat him by the sword.
He had not feared for Elizabeth. Vidal wanted her alive and well to twist and corrupt. Moreover, she was well shielded, which should protect her against any casual or deflected spell, and even keep any Sidhe brave enough to try to lift her while she was wearing the cross from touching her. However, when Vidal had been thrice wounded and realized his spells would never penetrate Denoriel's shields, he began to throw those spells at Elizabeth.
The shields Denoriel had devised to protect the child were not meant for that. One, two more castings and Elizabeth, all her brightness, all her sweetness, all her intelligent ferocity, would be gone. Denoriel reached out and drank lightning, drawing the terrible power through his body to cast out again as bolts of raw power at Vidal Dhu.
The first blast had staggered the prince of the Unseleighe Court, the second had beaten him to his knees, the third would have maimed or killed him—but then Denoriel had heard FitzRoy scream a warning. The bolt he had fashioned had lashed back . . .
"Denno. Denno."
Slowly, painfully, Denoriel opened his eyes. "It's all right, Harry," he whispered. "Elizabeth will be safe for a long time."
"Denno, don't die. Don't."
Tears dripped down on the hand FitzRoy was clutching and he coughed wetly as he bent his head to kiss Denno's hand.
"No," Denoriel lied, trying to smile. "I won't die, but I'll be a long, long time healing, my brave lad. Take care of yourself. Take care of Elizabeth."
FitzRoy's hand tightened on his so hard that Denoriel could feel it through all his other pain. He blinked, made an effort that nearly wrung a whimper from him, and saw more clearly. He did not like what he saw. Harry was white, his face slicked with sweat as well as tears, and there was panic in his eyes, the kind of panic a person feels when he knows it is impossible for him to complete a desperately important task.
"He mustn't die. He mustn't," FitzRoy gasped. "Lady Aleneil, he told me that if he were ever badly hurt and not near any Gate, that I must put him on Miralys. He said Miralys could take him to a healer."
Aleneil leaned forward and kissed FitzRoy's cheek. "Thank you. Thank you for keeping your head. I had forgotten all about Miralys."
"Ladbroke. Dunstan," FitzRoy called, coughing again. "Let's carry Lord Denno down to the back door."
"Miralys will be there," Aleneil promised.
The first thing Mwynwen did was to strip the power-drinking spell from Denoriel. Then, for a month, she kept him under a healing sleep spell, which allowed him to eat and drink and perform other natural functions without really being conscious. After the second week, she had sent messages to the Magi Gilfaethwy and Treowth. Both grumbled, but both came, and separately examined Denoriel. Both agreed that Denoriel might be healed, but that he must not touch any power. "Not for so much as lighting a candle or passing through a gate," Treowth said.
By the middle of the fourth week, however, Mwynwen felt that Denoriel was resisting, fighting to come awake, fighting the pain it cost him to fight. At first he had been soothed by his sister's visits, but for the last few days his struggle seemed to increase in Aleneil's presence. This time even Aleneil noticed, and when her soft urgings to rest only brought new struggles, she left the room.
Mwynwen drew her aside into her private apartment and when Aleneil asked anxiously what was wrong Mwynwen admitted that she did not dare make the sleep deep enough to truly blank Denoriel's mind. Then she asked whether Aleneil knew what could be troubling her brother.
Aleneil bit her lip. "I hope it is his concern for Lady Elizabeth. If so you could bring him to consciousness and I could reassure him in a few moments. I hope after that he will rest easy again."
"You hope. But?"
"But I fear he is worried about young FitzRoy," Aleneil sighed. "And if he is . . . I do not know what to tell him." She lowered her gaze to her hands, wringing together. "I fear FitzRoy is dying," she whispered.
"Dying?" Mwynwen's voice rose in shock. Then her voice, too, dropped to a whisper. "Could their lives be linked, my Richey and his mortal original? Richey . . ." she tried without success to hold back a sob. "Richey is failing."
"I am so sorry," Aleneil said.
She had thought when Mwynwen took the changeling into her care that it was a sad mistake, that Mwynwen was simply borrowing grief. On the other hand, the poor little thing was living, had a sweet personality and a bright mind. Not to help it would have been near to murder. No one had expected it to live more than a few months, possibly a year or two. But Mwynwen had loved it desperately, and driven by desperation had devised a spell to feed it power constantly.
"How long has FitzRoy been ill?" Mwynwen asked.
"He wasn't ill at all. In the battle that nearly killed Denoriel, FitzRoy was touched by elf-shot. He wasn't pierced by it, but somehow damaged. His lungs are full of liquid and he cannot breathe."
"Elf-shot? FitzRoy was harmed by elf-shot?" Hope lit Mwynwyn's eyes. "If we could bring him here, perhaps I could heal him. Perhaps when he grows strong, Richey will grow strong also."
"I am not sure how we can steal FitzRoy away. He is a person of some importance. Also, King Henry had him moved to St. James's palace where his own physicians could care for him. King Oberon would be furious if anything about FitzRoy's disappearance hinted at otherworld influence." Aleneil shook her head sharply, annoyed with herself. "Never mind that. I will think about that later. For now, wake Denoriel and I will tell him that all is well with FitzRoy."
"No," Mwynwen said. "He will never believe you and it will make him fight his healing even more fiercely. You must tell him the truth. Tell him about the elf-shot and that we plan to bri
ng FitzRoy here so I can cure him. Promise to have him waked when FitzRoy arrives." She bit her lip. "We will think of something. Surely, two such clever women as we can think of something!"
In that, at least, Mwynwen and Aleneil were successful. Denoriel sank back to rest and his healing proceeded apace. In another two weeks, his pain was so much diminished that Mwynwen allowed him to be fully awake for a few hours each day, and then a few hours longer. By the next week, he was awake at his own will, and on the second day of that week, as he was about to take a nap, he nearly fell out of bed when a young man with sandy hair and slightly muddy brown eyes peeped around his door.
"Harry!" Denoriel exclaimed, trying to struggle upright. "You are here already! Aleneil said they were having trouble reaching you." The door opened fully, showing the young man clinging to the doorframe, trembling. "Oh, my dear boy, come in and sit down. You are shaking. You should be in bed. I will come to you, I promise. Call for an attendant to take you—"
"No, please," the young man whispered, falling into a chair by the bed. "I am Richey, not your Harry."
"Richey . . ." Denoriel's voice faded as disappointment overcame him, and he allowed himself to fall back on his pillows. "I am sorry to see that you are not well . . ."
"I am dying," the young man said, his brow creased with such pain that he looked old before his time. "Inch by painful inch, and I cannot convince Mother to let me go. She feeds me power . . ." his eyes filled with tears, "and it hurts. I am so tired, so tired . . . I am too tired to sleep and I want to sleep, to rest . . . to rest . . ."
Denoriel forced himself upright again. "If I can help you . . . But how can I help?"
"I understand that much of the trouble in bringing your Harry here is that if he disappears without explanation the king will seek him and turn everything upside down to find him and that might breach the secrecy needed to protect Underhill. But if I took Harry's place, no one would wonder or look for him."
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