Ill Met by Moonlight

by Mercedes Lackey

  Vidal did not answer, only stared back at him, mouth thin with rage. Ogres—or whatever was large enough and numerous enough to slaughter a whole herd of sheep—did not Gate to the mortal world. They used a few natural portals that were part and parcel of Nodes that conducted power between Underhill and the World Above … and those could be penetrated as easily by mortals as by those of the Unseleighe Court.

  Most of the portals were hidden by barrows and mounds, but anyone who knew where the secret opening was would be able to move right into Underhill—and cold iron did not cause the disruption in these portals that it did in Gates. The Sidhe had magic and fearsome allies, but the mortals were as numerous as ants, and they had iron. Entered into the domains of the Sidhe, they could do damage.

  Pasgen shrugged. “King Oberon gave me no choice. He said I must prevent further incursions into the mortal world or he would banish me to it stripped of all power. He said also that he would render Caer Mordwyn back into its component mists and disperse those who lived in it so far and wide within Underhill that no two members would ever meet again.”

  “He takes too much upon himself,” Vidal growled.

  Pasgen made no direct answer to that since it was obvious that neither he nor any other Sidhe could prevent King Oberon from doing whatever he wanted to do. Instead he said, “I told him the court was no responsibility of mine, but he said he had just made it so and that if there were further incidents that raised talk of powers beyond human ken, or movements to discover from where the plagues came, he would make me suffer for it personally.”

  A flash of satisfaction passed over Vidal’s face; Pasgen saw it although it was masked by a black scowl in another instant. Vidal would do his best, Pasgen knew, to bring Oberon’s wrath on him. It was not something Pasgen wanted to dwell on.

  He had always respected Oberon, whose Thought had once or twice brushed his mind, but having come into personal contact with the High King, he had been awed. No, in his own mind let him be honest. He had been terrified of Oberon. Though the High King generally confined his attentions to the Seleighe Courts, he never forgot that he was High King over all the Sidhe, and still had power over Seleighe and Unseleighe alike.

  “Power,” Vidal said. “That is what is lacking. I need evil times in the mortal world. I need war and famine. I need grinding sorrow and pain and agonizing death. I need the Inquisition …” His eyes brightened with a clear idea and he asked, “Where is Elizabeth?”

  “Who?”

  “Elizabeth. Princess Elizabeth.” Vidal looked at Pasgen with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Elizabeth. The child we were taking into our keeping when I was struck down.” His mouth worked for a moment and he snarled, “We will need to arrange a fitting punishment for Henry FitzRoy, but that can wait until I devise a suitably agonizing death.”

  Speechless, Pasgen stared blankly at Prince Vidal, absorbing the fact that the once dangerously powerful ruler of Caer Mordwyn had large holes in his memory. Clearly he did not remember what had happened in the then Princess Elizabeth’s chamber; Pasgen wondered if Vidal even knew how much time had passed. How had that come about? Had Vidal’s servants not enough free will to seek out news? Had those who did have free will, like the healers, been afraid to tell him the truth?

  “I suppose your sister has her,” Vidal continued. “Rhoslyn has a strong liking for mortal children. But this one is too valuable to leave in her hands. Elizabeth must be taught the beauties and joys of pain. She must be delivered to my care at once.”

  Carefully Pasgen raised his strongest shields. He was not happy about being the one to break the bad news to Vidal. The prince did have a tendency to execute the messenger.

  “Rhoslyn does not have Elizabeth,” Pasgen said, deciding that it would be better to be blunt and unambiguous. “The child was never taken. Your plan failed, and we were forced to flee in confusion.”

  “Not taken!” Vidal roared, taking a threatening step forward. “Liar! My plan worked perfectly. The guards I had bespelled or replaced let us through. We came into the child’s chamber—”

  “Where Denoriel and his servants were lying in wait for us!” Pasgen spat, bitterness sharpening his voice. “Your perfect plan was an utter disaster. The mortal and the changeling he carried died. The Sidhe who was wounded fighting the mortal guards is also dead. I was wounded both by iron and by elf-shot. You were so near death we all despaired of your survival. And Aurelia … I do not know what happened to her, but she was unconscious and could not be roused.”

  “I do not believe you,” Vidal said, but he came no closer; his eyes were haunted, his face drawn.

  “Then send someone you trust to the mortal world and have him ask about the Lady Elizabeth. You will learn soon enough that she is alive and well among her mortal kin.” He fought to keep his lip from curling. “Or have your Seers scry into the past and show you the disaster so that you can see it with your own two eyes.”

  Vidal shook his head. “I cannot believe that after all that effort and loss no one had sense enough to snatch up the child. The dead changeling could have been left in its place. The maidservant would have been blamed …”

  Pasgen shook his head sharply. “No one could touch Elizabeth. Denoriel had put a shield on her that Aurelia could not breach—she was trying to do that when the maid struck her from behind. And even if the shield on Elizabeth could have been broken, no one could touch her with that iron cross on her.”

  “Cowards! Cowards all.” Vidal snarled, his face twisting. “The Gate was right there. I saw you open it. The pain the iron would give would not have lasted long. And we would have had her!”

  Pasgen stared him down. “I was in no condition to be snatching a shielded child. I had been wounded twice and was barely conscious—I could scarcely drag myself through the Gate. In fact no one was unhurt except Rhoslyn and the other dark Sidhe, and FitzRoy was standing beside Elizabeth’s bed with that device for throwing iron bolts. He was ready to kill us all. He said we had the choice of going through the Gate I had made or dying then. He meant it. And he could have done it, as easily as drawing breath.”

  “FitzRoy …” Vidal subsided, and licked his lips. “Surely there is a way to set a curse on him that—”

  “FitzRoy is dead. Long dead.” Pasgen seized on that fact with which to pacify Vidal and lead into the next piece of bad news. “FitzRoy died as slowly and as painfully as you could have desired. It was said that his body literally rotted away. They had to wrap him in a sheet of lead to bury him.”

  Vidal’s eyes widened. “He was falling apart? Rotting away? Ahhh.”

  Vidal paced slowly away from Pasgen, licking his lips again as he contemplated FitzRoy’s dissolution. He murmured to himself and nodded his head, walking away and then back and away again, pacing, deep in some pattern of thought.

  Now Pasgen was grateful for the hours he had spent, somewhat unwillingly, listening to Rhoslyn talk about events in the mortal world. He himself had very little interest in what happened in the World Above, but to Rhoslyn the fecundity and activity of the mortal world was fascinating. Thus she had maintained her contact with Lady Mary—Princess Mary before Henry had declared her illegitimate—and brought Pasgen news. Pasgen listened because he was fond of Rhoslyn, but he remembered everything because that was how his mind worked.

  In the past, the sour-bitter ooze of power that came from the misery of mortals had been as important to Pasgen as it was to all the Unseleighe. It was the power of pain and death that those of the Dark Court used, but in the weakness that Pasgen suffered after his wounding that power had become repugnant. Then, one day out of idleness and boredom he had accompanied Rhoslyn to one of the Unformed domains where she created constructs and had reached out to a curl of mist and breathed it in; it tasted almost too sweet, like overripe berries … but the warmth of power had blossomed in him.

  He had pursued another wisp, but that had filled mouth and throat with pain. He had been unable to spew it out or take it in; it had been l
ike trying to swallow a barbed chain. He would have choked to death if Rhoslyn had not rushed to him and said a special healing spell, one she had bought at considerable cost for just such a situation. Occasionally, deep in her work, she breathed in some mist and needed the protection.

  Pasgen had asked how she told the difference between the sweet-tasting mist and that which could kill. But she knew nothing of the gentle mist and she warned him against experimentation. At first, head and chest still sore from his second experience, Pasgen had heeded her, but weakness and boredom had worked on him until he tried again, more cautiously but persistently.

  In time he had discovered a fountain of power in the Unformed lands and he had discovered that spells were not necessarily fixed things. Sometimes they could be taken apart and rejoined in new ways. It was not the safest occupation; he had several times nearly been killed by a devouring mist or swallowed up in a spell gone wild, but he was never bored and never without a source of power. He did not need the diversion of mortal activities to ward off ennui, nor did he require the sour-bitter power that drained from their ills anymore.

  For the third time Vidal approached Pasgen, but this time he stopped, still smiling. “So FitzRoy is dead, and painfully. Good. I am only sorry I was not well enough to attend his deathbed. And you said …” Doubt suddenly marred the pleasure. “You said, long dead. How long?”

  Pasgen met the prince’s dark eyes. “Over four mortal years.”

  “Four years!” Vidal staggered back and sank down into his elaborate chair.

  “You were in great pain, Prince Vidal. I suppose your healers kept you in a trance. And it was a long healing. I was hurt less, but I was near two years abed.”

  “Four years,” Vidal muttered, then sat up straighter. “Well, that is not all bad. It will be all the easier to seize Elizabeth.”

  Pasgen shook his head, slowly and deliberately. “Much has happened in the World Above. It is no longer worthwhile to seize Elizabeth. She is too old to be brought up in our way of thinking. If she is broken, she will be useless to us, just another mortal slave, and surely we can get plenty of those without bringing the High King’s wrath down on us.”

  “No.” Vidal leaned forward, and his eyes which had been unfocused were now sharp. “We must have her or she must die. If she becomes queen, we will starve for power in the Unseleighe Courts.”

  Pasgen shook his head again. “A mighty labor for no purpose. There is very little chance that Elizabeth will ever be queen. Anne Boleyn succumbed to our magics, and brought about her own disgrace and demise. After Elizabeth’s mother was executed, Henry married again and Jane Seymour gave him a living, healthy son. Elizabeth has a legitimate brother now. Edward is the undoubted heir to the throne. And if Edward should fail, Mary is next in line. Once Mary is crowned, she will bring back the pope and the Inquisition. Elizabeth is of the reformed kind. She will doubtless be condemned by the Inquisition and removed without our ever being involved.”

  Vidal laughed at him. “Timid and lazy, little Pasgen. Again no. I have been to the FarSeers. Even without you and Rhoslyn—I was annoyed when I could not reach either of you for days on end …”

  The prince paused suggestively, but Pasgen did not respond, only raising his brows inquiringly. Vidal shrugged and continued.

  “The FarSeers make out three clear and distinct futures. One is with the boy king.” Vidal twisted his mouth. “The future with him is endurable. Let him live or die as fate wills. To meddle with him would surely bring violent retribution from Oberon. And Mary’s future is what we all desire. But Elizabeth’s future is still in their Seeing. There is no sign that she will be taken by the Inquisition, even if Mary should come to the throne. I want her here in Caer Mordwyn … or dead.”

  “To bring her here would be a grave error, I believe,” Pasgen said. “If, as you say, her future is still strong enough and probable enough to bring an image to the FarSeers, the Bright Court will be watching her.” He paused, pursed his lips. “I have a feeling that Queen Titania has a special interest in Elizabeth, possibly through my half-brother.”

  What flashed in Vidal’s eyes at the mention of the Queen made Pasgen swallow hard to kill a laugh. Should he encourage the flicker of lust in Vidal? Titania had a streak of wildness, and like many powerful females was attracted by males who were dangerous. If she had one of her temporary fallings-out with Oberon, she might take Vidal—but she would eat the prince whole. Pasgen had to clear his throat to disguise another laugh.

  He dropped his eyes and continued hurriedly, “In any case, Prince Vidal, there is no hurry. Two lives stand between Elizabeth and the throne. Get your own news about the mortal world from those you trust. Then … we will see.”

  As soon as he said those last words, Pasgen realized he had made a mistake, but it was too late to recall them. He could only try to look as if he did not realize what he had said.

  “I will decide. You will obey,” Vidal snapped. “Remember you are no longer usurping my place as prince.” Then he shrugged. “Well, I suppose after four years a few more weeks cannot matter, and it is true that I had better find a more reliable source than you for information. But I will hold court tomorrow. I expect you and Rhoslyn to be there …” He paused, frowned at Pasgen, and asked, “How did you know I wanted you?”

  Pasgen raised his brows, seemingly in surprise at the question. “Your imp came and told me.”

  “Oh, did it? And where is my imp?”

  “How should I know? It squeaked out your message and was gone. I thought you snatched it back.”

  Vidal stared at him but Pasgen just stared back and finally the prince waved dismissively at him. The door was now open again. Rebellion quivered under Pasgen’s breastbone, but he stilled it. To teach Vidal his true place would mean that he himself would be trapped as ruler of the Dark Court, perhaps forever, and freedom from Vidal was not worth that particular price. Pasgen turned on his heel, and left.

  Chapter 4

  Once Denoriel had agreed to deliver a letter from Elizabeth to FitzRoy and bring back his reply, she had become the most amazing piece of mischief. It was hard to believe that he had thought her unapproachable, unemotional, and standoffish. She knew how to use charm with a skill worthy of a woman grown. Denoriel was soon aware that she could bend him this way and that like a willow withy in a high breeze.

  And always with a purpose. Charmed, he might be; blinded he was not.

  Sometimes Harry’s too clear perceptions as a child had made Denoriel sad because he felt the boy had been robbed of the sweet trust that was one of the joys of childhood. On the other hand, Elizabeth’s constant testing of him often turned his blood cold. Beneath her warmth and vivacity, there was a part of her that trusted nothing and calculated everything. Oh, he understood this intellectually; she really did not dare to trust anything or anyone, for even at her young age she had seen more falsehood and betrayal than many adults. It was hard to look into those eyes and see, instead of open trust, a closed calculation. And yet, he was drawn to her more and more irresistibly.

  She believed in no one, and, perhaps, in nothing. She had begun testing that very first time they met, telling him of her plans for the garden, mixing quite clever suggestions with some that would have produced an ugly clash of colors or scents. Denoriel, who had perforce become quite an expert on gardens while Harry was a child, had approved heartily of the good notions, suggested changes in other plans, and told her outright that the bad ones were ridiculous.

  Angrily, Elizabeth had supported her own ideas, saying that if he could not understand a plan just because it was unusual that he could not expect her to favor him. And when he said baldly that stupid was stupid, not unusual, she had burst into tears and claimed that if he loved her as he said he did, he would see that what she wanted was best.

  He had almost yielded despite the thrill of horror that passed through him over those last words. She was so small and fragile, so pathetic and seemingly alone in her desire to try something ne
w. Even her devoted governess disapproved of the changes in the garden. And what would be lost if he pleased her? Only a bed or two of inappropriate plantings that could be dug over without real loss.

  Denoriel knew it was only the assumption that what she wanted was always best that saved him. He had tried to pacify her, using softer language and explaining carefully about the scents and the flower colors and the types of foliage, but he had continued to deny that what she wanted was best … just because she wanted it. And then, just as they were about to part at the door, she had stopped crying, turned her golden eyes up to him, and, with a brilliant smile, asked him to come again soon. He was fun to be with, she said. He gave her a good argument—right or wrong.

  In fact, it was not until he and Aleneil were near the Gate that would bring them back Underhill that he realized she had been testing him, that she had probably not been interested in changing the garden in the first place. A kind of shiver ran up and down his spine and he suffered the strongest desire to put his long, strong hands around her long, graceful neck and strangle her … at the same time that he wanted to make her laugh and kiss her.

  Those feelings became more and more familiar over the following year. There was never any trouble about access to Elizabeth, no need for secrecy as there had been when he went to see Harry. Mistress Champernowne invariably greeted him with delight and the servants took him for granted. He had begun cautiously. The second time he came, he came alone. Aleneil did not accompany him because he wanted to see whether he would be admitted on his own; however, as a special passport and an excuse, he brought as a gift a bolt of amber silk that just matched Elizabeth’s eyes.

  He and his silk were welcomed with joy. He made nothing of the gift. He was a merchant; a ship was in. The cloth reminded him of Lady Elizabeth, and so …

  Elizabeth had not, as he almost hoped, forgotten what she considered the real purpose of his visit. She had ready a thin parchment, folded small, which she slipped to him while her governess was examining and exclaiming over the bolt of silk. Nonetheless, she quarreled with him again, this time over a contested translation of some French poetry. And she almost convinced him to agree with her again because her ploy was entirely different. Now she was a proud scholar, who might be crushed and lose her taste for learning if she were found at fault.