Ill Met by Moonlight

by Mercedes Lackey

  Denoriel managed to mount without displaying any weakness and to hold himself steady in the saddle as Miralys took him past the palace gate and out into the road. He felt some concern about the effect of Gating when his power was at so low an ebb, but in fact Miralys must have managed the Gate because he was not even aware of the transition, only realizing he had arrived at Elfhame Avalon when the Gate appeared around him.

  No one could mistake the glory that was Avalon’s Gate. Overhead were the interwoven boughs of eight trees wrought of solid silver, and beneath Miralys’s hooves, not marble, but a pavement-mosaic of an eight-pointed star, formed of thousands of pearly seashells, each smaller than the nail of a newborn baby’s finger, and each so strong that thousands of years of contact with silver hooves and imperishable boot soles had not dimmed their luster or cracked even one.

  The blind masks of all the guards turned toward him. Four featureless polished silver faces regarded him and then turned away; Denoriel knew he had been Seen and accepted and that he was free to go anywhere in Avalon. Just as well, too. Denoriel was a superior swordsman and he kept up his practice, but he knew that any of the guards could have taken him down in a few minutes. They were not automata, however. They were Sidhe who volunteered for this duty, serving for a hundred mortal years while training their replacements.

  They were well rewarded, Denoriel knew, and had the intermittent pleasure of fighting periodic incursions of Unseleighe monsters. They had been particularly busy while Vidal was stricken with wounds from the mortal world; the Dark Court had been without governance and many thought if they could find the Gateway that the maidens and effete males of the Bright Court would be at their mercy. They would have learned better … except that none of those who passed the Gate had got farther than the Gate itself and its guardians.

  If they had tried to come through in an organized force, it might have been different. Four guards, even guards such as these, could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. But the one thing that the Unseleighe had always been short of was cooperation. It was easier to herd crickets than organize the quarrelsome Unseleighe Sidhe, their minions, and underlings. Only fear of a greater power could force them into a whole, and with Vidal Dhu gone, there had been no one hand to rule them all.

  Once out into the silvery light of Avalon, Denoriel began to feel restored. Power … Avalon was replete with power and Denoriel’s spell sucked it in and filled his channels more quickly than a Sidhe’s natural slow absorption. Nonetheless he stayed mounted, allowing Miralys to carry him swiftly across the wide, flower-starred lawn. Often Denoriel would leave Miralys on the lawn to graze for the pleasure of walking among the sweet scents and gentle breezes. Today he only wished to reach Aleneil quickly.

  Miralys sensed his hurry. Three huge strides brought them from the Gate to the white wall that was the back of the Academicia. As they approached, part of the wall shimmered open into a dark passage. Miralys approached without hesitation. Denoriel felt the chill tingle of some recognition spell, which also acknowledged them with a breath of welcome and allowed them to pass.

  Another wide lawn, this broken here and there by formal beds of flowers. In the distance was a gentle forest of slender birches with silver-white trunks, quivering aspens, and delicate-leaved red maples. Before the wood were white cottages, the farthest to the left Aleneil’s home.

  Miralys took him right to the door, which opened as he dismounted to show Aleneil, dressed exquisitely as Lady Alana but wearing—Denoriel was grateful to see—her own sweet and comely face.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, hurrying out to take his hand. “I felt your exhaustion and anxiety as soon as you passed the Academicia boundaries.”

  He slid from Miralys’s back, and was glad when his knees held steady beneath him. “Pasgen attacked Elizabeth. I believe he tried to kill her.”

  “No!” Her hand flew to her mouth in horror. “Oh, no. He would not. Pasgen is not a monster. He is Sidhe. He would not harm a child.”

  Remembering Ladbroke’s thunderclap and the air spirit’s description of “gone,” Denoriel grinned. “Well, he did not harm her. Between Elizabeth and Blanche, they collapsed his Gate and cast him right out of the mortal world.”

  “Elizabeth? I know Blanche can spell-cast, but she is not strong enough to drive off Pasgen …” She blinked, and seemed to realize that he was fairly on his last legs. “Oh, come in and rest, Denno, dear.”

  She led him through the small entrance with its graceful sword rack and a closed door to the right, a small table flanked by two straight chairs and bearing a crystal dish for tokens and a fluted vase with a few flowers opposite, and an arched opening into the main sitting room to the left. Placing him in his favorite chair, she took a seat at right angles at the end of the settle.

  The gentle blues and greens soothed him and the iridescent mother-of-pearl insets were smooth and cool under his fingers. Most of his strength was slowly returning, as if the very air of Underhill could restore him, but he was still quivering with tension, the smile long gone from his face.

  And he still thought that Pasgen’s intention had been deadly. “Can you think of a reason why Pasgen should disguise himself as Lord Denno and meet Elizabeth alone in the garden? He brought no changeling to take her place. What could he mean but murder?”

  Aleneil shook her head. “I still cannot believe that. There are other things he could have intended. To attempt to abduct her while disguised as you would surely make trouble for you with Oberon as well as in the World Above. The abduction would not even need to succeed. Likely you could clear yourself with the High King, but it would ruin you in the mortal world. And—because we were foolish enough to call ourselves cousins for convenience—might well ruin me also. It would make us persona non grata among the English Court. Think, Denoriel. In every FarSeeing of Elizabeth as queen, you and I stand behind her. What if we were not there?”

  The sharp knot of terror Denoriel had been carrying around inside him loosened. Surely Aleneil was right. Abducted was not dead. Elizabeth might be frightened, but she could be rescued. To abduct the daughter of the king would certainly be forbidden by Oberon and Denoriel knew he would easily receive permission to harrow all the Dark domains until she could be found. He almost smiled again, thinking how much he would enjoy a series of raids into Vidal’s territory.

  Aleneil sensed the easing of his anxiety. “Ah, you never thought of that, did you? But Vidal’s FarSeers must get the same images we do. I do not think that Vidal wants to bring Oberon’s wrath down on his head by arranging the death of a royal child, but attacks on you and me would certainly not be forbidden.”

  “No, and I do not care, if they prevent the Dark Court from aiming at Elizabeth, but still … No, someone more powerful than Blanche must watch over her, especially for the next week or so. Pasgen is going to be beside himself with rage at being thwarted by a maidservant and a child less than eight years old.”

  “Which brings me to ask how he was thwarted?” She tilted her head to the side, all curiosity now that her own fears were eased.

  “I am not exactly certain,” he replied slowly, “but I believe he was overconfident. From what the maid said, he must have copied some of the clothing from my clothes chest in Bucklersbury Street. Blanche said she should have prevented Elizabeth from going with him when she saw the clothes he was wearing. That might have alerted Elizabeth—she is very clever—so that she asked him some key questions.”

  “Key questions?” Aleneil asked sharply.

  Denoriel shrugged. “She could have said, for instance, ‘Have you seen my Da?’ which I am certain Pasgen would have taken to mean her father. No matter what he said—yes or no—would have been wrong because ‘Da’ has never meant ‘father’ to Elizabeth. And perhaps if he approached her and her cross hurt him he would have told her to cover it. Then she would have known that the person was not me. Every time I see her I warn her never to put the cross away and not to trust anyone who urges her to do so.”


  “Even yourself?” Aleneil smiled.

  “Most especially myself! I have told her that I have a brother who is mischievous and might lead her into trouble. But Pasgen and I are not identical. I think Elizabeth might see the differences between us if she were warned to look.”

  “How could a child see the differences if he were disguised as you?” she asked—but then blinked. “Oh, yes, I do remember that as a babe she could see through illusion. Do you think she still can?”

  He nodded. “I think so. And I hope so, because she is clever enough never to give away what she sees. Except the time she saw that imp in her bedchamber.”

  “Yes, that was when you asked me to bespell an air spirit to watch over her.” Aleneil frowned. “Why then is it that the air spirit did not give the alarm sooner?”

  That, at least, he thought he had worked out. “Because Pasgen is enough like me that it just thought I was there. It had no reason to be alarmed until Pasgen began to threaten Elizabeth—which he must have done because then the spirit ‘pulled the line to me’ and, of course, arrived in London screaming of danger and that I must come at once. By the time I arrived, although I Gated direct into Elizabeth’s bedchamber …”

  His voice faded and he stared past Aleneil’s shoulder. “Gated direct,” he muttered. “Why was it so easy for me to open a Gate into Elizabeth’s bedchamber?”

  “Because Pasgen had made a Gate there the night of the battle,” Aleneil said, her voice suddenly hard. “That is not a good thing. Having opened a Gate there once, he could do so again … Ah! That was how the imp got into her room. Well. Something must be done about that. The chamber must be watched.”

  Denoriel had left off smoothing the mother-of-pearl insets in the arms of the chair and was wringing his hands. “What am I to do?” he breathed. “No matter what I said I would not be welcome in Elizabeth’s bedchamber and I cannot wear the Don’t-see-me spell day and night forever. I—”

  She shook her head.“No, of course you cannot wear a spell for any length of time; however, I can make myself welcome in Elizabeth’s bedchamber without any spells. Do you not remember that I have had an appointment as a maid of honor since Elizabeth was three? I seldom present myself for duty—it is agreed between Kat Champernowne and me that she can call on me if she needs me for some special purpose, but that I will not otherwise burden her household. Nevertheless, I always have a good reason for my presence there.”

  Denoriel nodded. “She is always short of money and most of the other maids of honor need their stipends.”

  “Exactly. However, if my cousin chooses to redecorate his house in London and I am sensitive to the smell of paint and polish, I believe Kat would allow me to stay at Hatfield until my cousin’s house was again endurable.” She smiled. “And if my cousin then has an incursion of relatives from the country—relatives with a large and noisy family—I will have further reason to stay. Should Kat begin to look askance at the drains on the household purse, my dear, considerate cousin will surely offer compensatory gifts for taking me off his hands.”

  Denoriel sagged bonelessly into his chair with relief. “Thank you, Aleneil. If you can watch over her, I will try to connect again with the duke of Norfolk. Perhaps he can explain why Elizabeth suddenly seems important to the Dark Court and we will better be able to judge how close a watch must be kept.”

  “And for how long.” Aleneil was silent for a moment and then added, “I will Gate to Hatfield to arrive almost as soon as you left. I want to know exactly what happened in the garden … Blanche will tell me. We will have to take especial care if Elizabeth is like her mother. Untrained Talent is dangerous.”

  “It killed Anne,” Denoriel muttered. “We must see to it that it proves a boon and not a bane to her daughter.”

  Chapter 8

  Denoriel found it much easier to obtain an interview with the duke of Norfolk than he had expected. His formal note—on the thick, creamy parchment—received a prompt and courteous reply. It was in a secretary’s hand, to be sure, but setting a date only a week later, on Tuesday, 25 May as an appointment for a meeting. The reply was no doubt composed by the secretary also, because Denoriel could detect no hint of why the response was so prompt and agreeable.

  On the day, Denoriel examined himself carefully in the cheval glass to be sure that the pupils in his eyes were round, that their green was not so brilliant as to arouse unease, that his ears were rounded and low on his skull. His clothing was not sumptuous, the brocade of his doublet, soft violet on gray, subdued under a dark-gray velvet gown, his codpiece very modest, his slops and hose also gray, but lighter, so that the embroidery and clocking in silver barely glittered when he moved. It was also very rich, the cloth all silk, and heavy Oriental silk, not French.

  Denoriel considered whether he should add jewelry, but in the end, aside from two rings, both on his left hand (where they would not interfere with his grip on the hilt of his silver-alloy sword), added only a single brooch, brilliant with diamonds. He wished Norfolk to know him prosperous, not to believe he was so rich as to be dangerous or ripe for plucking.

  He then presented himself to his man of business. Joseph Clayborne examined him carefully and then nodded. “Just enough, I think,” he said, “although the brooch might be on the ostentatious side.”

  Denoriel shrugged. “I can change it, but sometimes His Grace is so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he is a bit slow to notice things.”

  Joseph pursed his lips and then nodded. “And you’re a foreigner, of course, so some bad taste is almost mandatory.” He smiled as Denoriel laughed aloud and pointed to a fair-sized package at the end of the table. “There’s the tapestry.”

  Having picked it up, Denoriel frowned. “I think I should not be carrying this myself. You’d better soon hire a footman, Joseph. It is too inconvenient not to have any servant who speaks English.”

  Clayborne looked at him for a moment then looked away and asked, “Too clever or too stupid?”

  “Hmmm.” Denoriel was in no doubt that Joseph was asking whether he wanted a man so clever that he would never ask about the peculiarities of his master’s and the other servants’ behavior or too stupid to notice. “Thank you for making the point. I must give the matter some thought. We had better discuss it when I get back. I wouldn’t want to be late.”

  He was not. Miralys whisked him through the streets and left him just out of sight of Norfolk’s house. It was too chancy for Denoriel to leave the elvensteed with Norfolk’s ostlers; they would be sure to detect that the bit was missing and the halter loose enough to be thrown off with a toss of Miralys’s head. And he could not, as he used to do at Windsor, insist on stabling his horse himself.

  Most people walked in London, where the streets were so narrow and clogged that riding was slow and other modes of transport mostly forbidden. So the steward who came to the door to greet Denoriel was not at all surprised to see him afoot. He was a little surprised to see the duke’s guest carrying a package, but merely summoned a footman to take it when Denoriel requested that service. And he led Denoriel directly to a well-appointed reception chamber, where considerably to Denoriel’s surprise, the duke was already waiting.

  He was seated in a handsome carved chair, perhaps just a trifle reminiscent of a throne; however, on the opposite side of the hearth, where a low fire warmed away the lingering coolness of morning, was a second chair. Denoriel did not allow the internal smile he felt to show. The duke wished to awe, but he kept in mind that many of his guests would not take lightly his sitting on a throne while they were offered stools.

  Denoriel bowed. The duke gestured him toward the chair. I have come up in the world, Denoriel thought, when I was coming to Harry I doubt he would have offered me so much as a stool. I wonder what he wants. Denoriel bowed again, murmured something about being honored, and sat down. The footman holding the package waited beside and slightly behind the chair.

  Norfolk came directly to the point. “I must admit that I was surprised to
receive your application for an audience, Lord Denno. I thought that with your opportunity to influence the throne gone, you would not return.”

  “Opportunity to influence the throne?” Denoriel repeated trying to look astonished. “But I do not believe I ever spoke a word to King Henry … Oh, no, I did that one time when Ormond asked me to play the Lord of Misrule at a Christmas feast.”

  Norfolk’s impatient gesture cut him off. “I meant through Richmond, if he had come to rule.”

  Denoriel took a sharp breath as if something had hurt him and looked away as if to hide the fact that tears had come to his eyes. Then he shook his head.

  “You must believe what you will, Your Grace, but the truth is that I never thought of it.” He allowed the corners of his mouth to droop a little, and widened his eyes in melancholy. “Perhaps if my business were failing or I in need, I might have become desperate enough to resort to such a use; one cannot always say ‘Oh, but I would never do that‘ until one comes to the extreme, can one?” He shrugged. “But I was successful, rich, and growing richer by the day. My lord, what brought me here was Harry … I loved Harry. He was God’s consolation for the brother the Turks had murdered.”

  “Yet you did not return to England when he was dying.” Norfolk narrowed his eyes speculatively.

  “I did not know!” All he had to do to make the words into a howl of pain was to remember his anguish when he knew Harry had been hit with elf-shot. “I received two letters from His Grace and both were … ordinary, giving me news of the kingdom and hoping I was well and that my business was prospering. He never said he was sick. And no one ever told me! Perhaps they thought I knew already; perhaps they simply did not think to tell me.”

  “Ah.”

  Denoriel heard a touch of satisfaction in the duke’s wordless comment and again had to restrain a smile. So the duke had been angry at him because he had believed Denoriel truly loved Harry and he had been distressed by his lack of concern or judgment when Denoriel did not rush back to Harry’s side when the boy began to fail. Actually, that made him feel a bit better about Norfolk.