Ill Met by Moonlight

by Mercedes Lackey

  “She will not wait long,” Mwynwen said, her voice firm. “And that is my promise. We will come to her before she has had time to miss you, but you must rest and recover your strength, or you will do her and yourself no good.”

  “So why is she not dead?” Vidal roared.

  A chorus of voices answered him. “Kill her!” “Be rid of her!” “Yes! She must die!” “We hunger and if she comes to the throne, no matter when, we will starve.”

  The low, angry growl came from the rows of dark Sidhe ranked before Vidal’s throne. Pasgen sat in the first seat among those, the foremost on what would be the left side of the aisle from Vidal’s throne. Rhoslyn sat beside him. Years before Vidal had tried to separate them, to set Rhoslyn on the other side of the aisle. He had spoken of the honor of that place, first on his right hand as Pasgen was first on his left.

  Pasgen smiled slightly, remembering Rhoslyn’s reply—loud and clear ringing throughout the throne room—that she would rather have less honor and more safety. That she would far rather sit next to Pasgen than on Vidal’s own throne. The smile did not linger on Pasgen’s lips. He raised his eyes calmly to meet Vidal’s, noting that the dark orbs were taking on luster. Vidal was still recovering.

  “How clear do you wish to make it to King Oberon that the Unseleighe had a hand in the death of the king’s daughter?” Pasgen asked, smiling again. “What I have done cannot be followed to any source other than a mortal who employs another mortal as a foreteller and advisor. Did you not yourself forbid me to go near the girl, Prince Vidal?”

  “But we hunger!”

  The undifferentiated growl came from the mass of dark Sidhe. Pasgen restrained a shudder. One sign of weakness and they would all be on him … and take Rhoslyn, who would try to save him, too. One at a time, he could defeat them. All together—not a chance in the world. But he had to make a show of strength against them, or they would be on him like wolves.

  “You fools!” he said, standing and turning to look over them. “Elizabeth’s death will not change that. Prince Vidal desires it as a safeguard for the future, but all that matters is that she not come to the throne as queen. Whether the child dies now or some years hence will make no difference to the power coming to us from the mortal world. If you hunger, go snatch a mortal or two and play with them. Take out the Wild Hunt and trouble your lord no more!”

  “Only one mortal or two!” Vidal said sharply. “No more! And be sure the hunt takes them in places far from each other.”

  Pasgen dropped back into his seat, surprised at finding himself glad of Vidal’s continued recovery, of the prince’s ability to issue a confident command. Let Vidal continue to gain strength and agility of mind and he would no longer need to appear to support Vidal with respect and obedience. Pasgen found himself very tired of the Unseleighe of Vidal Dhu’s court. He wanted to be free to follow his own studies and experiments. If Vidal again truly ruled the Unseleighe, Pasgen could withdraw himself and simply ignore Vidal’s summons; he no longer feared the prince and he could protect Rhoslyn too.

  “A little patience,” Vidal was saying. “Soon will come the season for the Scots to raid. I have seen to it that King James did not meet with King Henry to make peace. I have also arranged for an English leader who is no longer willing simply to drive the Scots away. He will follow to punish, but the Scots will be warned of his coming and his men will be slain, he himself taken prisoner. The English will retaliate, and then the Scots will perforce make their answer in arms. There will be war—rapine, looting—and for us … power.”

  “Ah …”

  Again that bestial, crude response, but this time of satisfaction. Pasgen thought of the chaos lands, of the wisps of sweetness here and there with longing. So much better than the bitter power coming from the misery of mortals. Somehow he must learn to breed that kind of mist. The red monster would grow if fed, though Pasgen was still trying to discover a way to destroy it. Surely he could find a way to feed the sweet mists. And the self-contained wisp of mist that Rhoslyn had given him was equally an enigma; it had a vigor that the sweet mists lacked. So much to learn. So much to do.

  Rhoslyn pinched his arm, drawing him from his thoughts to the realization that the court was dispersing and that Vidal was beckoning him toward the throne. Rhoslyn let him pass and was about to follow him, but Vidal shook his head at her, smiling scornfully.

  “He will not need your protection, mistress.”

  Some of the dark Sidhe had stopped and were looking avidly from the twins to Vidal. Annoyed, Pasgen raised a shield around them as if he were afraid; he wasn’t. He could destroy any spell Vidal cast without a shield, but he was not ready for Vidal to know that or the other members of the court either.

  “Go,” Pasgen said to Rhoslyn, lifting his hand to touch the small furry creature under his collar.

  Rhoslyn nodded and said softly, “Keep shielded for a half hour. The lindys will tell me after that if all is not well with you.”

  “It will be.”

  Pasgen turned away and came to the foot of the dais on which Vidal’s throne sat. Although the purpose for which Rhoslyn had created the pretty snakelike creatures was finished—for two weeks Rhoslyn had done everything she could think of to Pasgen’s token: burned it, thrown spells at it, locked it in an airless dark place, frozen it, all without Pasgen ever becoming aware of the mistreatment—the creatures had proven themselves useful in other ways.

  Pasgen had forgotten to return the little thing. It was silent, noiseless, odorless and unobtrusive; it moved by itself whenever he changed his clothing. If anyone caught a glimpse of it, it could be taken for fur trim. And then Rhoslyn had been briefly trapped by a malfunctioning Gate. Pasgen’s lindys had begun to vibrate so violently that he Gated with dizzying speed to her domain to find her missing. Fortunately before he had begun to wreak havoc to find her, the lindys had gone quiet and a few moments later, Rhoslyn herself arrived, a bit shaken but unhurt, and explained what had happened to her.

  Obviously just knowing that the other was in trouble was not enough. Pasgen had spent a delightful few weeks working out a spell by which he, and he alone, could home in on Rhoslyn’s lindys and Rhoslyn could equally find him. Now either of them knew if the opposite twin was in trouble—and where to find that twin. Rhoslyn was not as strong in magic as he, except for her ability to create, but if he needed her, she would arrive with a dozen of her “girls,” who were mostly impervious to spells. Pasgen smiled up at Vidal Dhu. He would feel sorry for anyone Rhoslyn’s “girls” took in hand.

  However, Vidal did nothing more threatening than rise and walk through the door behind the throne. Having gestured the door to his private apartment open, he walked in and nodded to Aurelia, who was lying back on a black-velvet-covered couch of the old Roman fashion, her golden hair a brilliant halo around her pale face.

  “Is your headache any better?” Vidal asked.

  “Oh, yes. Golbuleum drew it out of me, but I had to speak to him most sharply and he collapsed once he had drawn out the pain. He says the pain is almost impossible to disperse, that it is nothing like any pain he has ever treated before.”

  A remnant of the damage done Aurelia by the maid with the necklace of cold iron crosses? Pasgen wondered. If so the recurring pain must be connected with cold iron. No wonder it was hurting the healer to draw it out.

  Vidal’s eyes narrowed and he confirmed Pasgen’s guess by saying, “Those headaches are what remains of the harm done you in the World Above. What we need is a mortal who is Talented in healing. I know they do not live long, but probably it will live long enough to rid you of this problem.” His eyes shifted to Pasgen. “So, since you have failed at your primary task, do you think you could at least find a healer?”

  “Failed at his task?” Aurelia repeated. “You mean that Elizabeth is not dead? Why are you so inept, Pasgen? I did my part. Lady Rochefort was delighted with the necklace sent by her mother by marriage and wore it often. So she was often reminded of her losses—h
er position as sister to the queen and the terrible shame when her husband was executed for incest with his sister, and the fact that it was all lies, only because the king wanted a new wife.”

  “Yes, Aurelia,” Vidal said, with oily satisfaction. “Your amulet did work perfectly. Lady Rochefort aided and abetted Catherine in committing adultery and she and Catherine lost their heads and half of Norfolk’s family is in prison, but Pasgen’s spells are not so effective. Elizabeth is alive and well.”

  “Lady Rochefort was not protected by my half-brother,” Pasgen said flatly, swallowing rage. “And the High King has not forbidden us to meddle with her. I thought I had wakened enough distrust of Denoriel in Elizabeth and the governess, but unfortunately the child did not admit to the governess that Denno had attacked her, and the governess is more completely dependent on him than I knew.”

  “Governess! Pah! Your spell was too weak!” Vidal flung himself into his thronelike chair.

  Stung, Pasgen snapped back, “I know that my second attempt was perfectly successful. Servants and idle equerries talk in ale-houses, and I have servants who listen. The dreams did work. Elizabeth did reject Denoriel and she was within days of dying of her own fear or flinging herself from the battlements for relief.” Pasgen took a breath, grateful that Vidal had excluded Rhoslyn. She would have been furious over the pain he had inflicted on a child. A black scowl drew his brows together. He did not like to think about what he had done himself. It was one thing to make war on Denoriel, but another to strive for the death of a child.

  “If she was all but dead, what happened?” Aurelia asked waspishly.

  “The governess panicked and sent for Denoriel even though Elizabeth swore she would not see him,” Pasgen said sullenly. “In fact, she did refuse to see him, but he forced himself upon her and he recognized that she was bespelled. How he could tell in the mess of her own Talent and the miasma of that iron cross she wears …” He shrugged. “He fetched that pet healer of his, of the Seleighe Court, who found the spell and broke it.”

  Aurelia sat up on the couch and stared at him. “How? How did the healer work on her while she wore the cross? And did not you tell us that she would not take it off, that she ran from you when you told her to take it off?”

  “How can I know?” Pasgen snapped. “I was not there, and Elizabeth can see any creature we send to spy on her or the nurse can sense it. But what I guess is that the healer cast a sleep spell on her and Denoriel removed the cross.”

  Aurelia shuddered, despite her pique, distracted by the very idea of handling something made of the death metal. “He can touch it?”

  “He was always less sensitive to cold iron than most,” Pasgen admitted with a shrug. “I know Koronos would send him to the fore when the hunt took down a mortal with steel weapons. I have heard from my mother that my father was the same.”

  “Too bad the talent did not come to you.” Vidal sneered.

  “True enough,” Aurelia spat. “You do not seem to be good for anything! Is all my hard work to go for nothing?”

  “For all of me, it can!” Pasgen snarled. “I will be more than happy to leave Elizabeth to your tender mercies in the future. But—” he started to repeat his warnings about Oberon, then shrugged. Enough. If Vidal wished to cross swords with the High King, on his head be it.

  “Very well,” Vidal said with a thin smile. “Busy yourself with finding a mortal healer for us.”

  Pasgen mistrusted both the smile and the easy agreement. He suspected that some open attack would be made on Elizabeth in such a way that the blame for it would fall upon him. He thought of Oberon’s response to so blatant a violation of his command that neither the king nor anyone in his family should be the subject of Unseleighe attack, and grew cold within; now he regretted suggesting that Vidal do his own dirty work.

  He thought of giving Vidal a warning, but instead bowed and withdrew. He had time to think before he acted. He knew that Denoriel had drained himself out putting wards on the walls of Elizabeth’s chambers. If Vidal tried to build a Gate there, his spell would backlash on him. And Pasgen was very sure that Elizabeth would not emerge from those chambers for some time. He had learned that Elizabeth was using the effects of the spell as an excuse and had taken to her bed. No visitors—except of course his accursed half-brother and half-sister—were being allowed.

  Nonetheless, he would need to keep an eye on Vidal. It would be impossible to keep Elizabeth abed for very long, and when she emerged from her bedchamber she would become vulnerable. Pasgen sighed as he walked down the corridor to the black marble steps. Something else to keep him from his own work, but he would have to make sure that Vidal did not make him the sacrificial goat for Oberon’s wrath. Better by far that Oberon’s anger should find the appropriate target.

  Pacing the floor of his sitting room before the hearth in which Mwynwen’s salamander danced merrily over the rainbow-colored flames leaping around some crystal logs, Denoriel was saying much the same thing as Pasgen had been thinking.

  “We cannot keep her abed much longer.” He looked at Mwynwen, who sat holding Harry’s hand on the sofa while Aleneil fidgeted in one of the graceful armchairs. “Can you do nothing to protect her?”

  “Mwynwen, please?” Harry pleaded.

  “Do you think me a monster?” the healer exploded, and the salamander gyrated and hissed and leapt half out of the hearth. “I would protect the child if I could, but I cannot. Her Talent is totally unstable. Most of the time it is too tenuous for me to train, but there is a huge … reservoir, or well … full of power within her. And that, from what you told me, can burst out of her if she is threatened or frightened. Perhaps she could be taught to draw on that, but it is sorcerers who can store and use power in that way, not a healer. So Elizabeth needs to be trained by a sorcerer. If she knew the proper spells, I think she would be able to use them when she felt herself to be in danger.”

  “Trained by a sorcerer,” Denoriel repeated. “But that would mean bringing her Underhill. Even if we could find a human sorcerer who was not a charlatan in all of England, we would not dare bring him to Elizabeth, much less take her to him. But bring the king’s daughter here? Underhill? Oberon would fry us in our own skins.”

  “You brought me,” Harry said.

  “That was to escape the Wild Hunt of the Unseleighe and we were loose Underhill only because the Gate failed.” He shook his head. “To bring a royal child to be trained by an elven or otherwise otherworldly sorcerer … Oberon would not countenance it.”

  Aleneil stood up. “But Titania is absolutely determined that Elizabeth should come to the throne, and Elizabeth cannot be crowned queen if she is dead. Moreover, what she knows Oberon would forbid is very tempting to Titania. Ordinarily I would not encourage her rebelliousness, but truly Elizabeth’s life is worth a quarrel between the King and Queen. I will appeal to Titania.”

  “Ah …” Denoriel drew out the sound and looked down at his fingers uneasily. “Do I have to come with you? I know I am responsible for Elizabeth’s safety, but the way Titania looks at me …”

  Both Mwynwen and Aleneil laughed, and Mwynwen said, “No, I will go with Aleneil. I wish to make a point of just how horrible a spell was cast on Elizabeth. Titania is very fond of mortal children. When I describe the pain inflicted on this poor little child, she will be outraged.”

  The Queen was indeed outraged when they found her, but it took considerable effort to track her to her current location. Mwynwen and Aleneil first Gated from Logres to Avalon; but the Queen was not in the palace. On the advice of those maids and servitors left behind they then tried several meadows and woodland sites Titania favored. These too were empty of the Queen and her court, but they came upon one of the wee folk, a tiny flashing figure with butterfly wings, sucking nectar with its long tongue from some brilliant red lilies.

  From a cascade of high tinkling, Aleneil made out the faery’s words: “She has a new mortal child, taken away to save it from starvation and an early grave. To s
ave them grieving for lost parents and siblings, she lets the mortal children she steals believe they have died and gone to heaven.”

  Then, perhaps because it was (by their luck) more pleasant and cooperative than its kind usually were, or, more likely, because it was curious to see Aleneil’s and Mwynwen’s reaction, it showed them how to Gate to the domain called Heaven. Likely it got its satisfaction because when the clouds that concealed the terminus Gate parted, Aleneil just stood there gaping around her.

  “It really is heaven,” Aleneil exclaimed.

  “Well, I hope so,” Mwynwen said doubtfully, looking around for the tiny, flashing creature, which was now gone. “The wee folk can be very mischievous and could easily misdirect us for amusement.”

  “No, no,” Aleneil said. “I am sure this is the domain called Heaven. Mortals believe in a place called heaven to which they can go after they die if they have been sufficiently virtuous or religious or both.”

  Mwynwen looked at her blankly for a moment and then shrugged. “I suppose because they live such short lives they must find some way to believe they will exist longer. And it is rather pretty.”

  From the Gate a luminous golden path led through a dense but brilliantly lit mass of clouds. Here and there reclining amid the clouds were golden-haired, round-eared creatures—which must be constructs—with huge white-feathered wings. When Mwynwen and Aleneil stepped forward onto the path, the constructs burst into song.

  “Sweet Dannae,” Aleneil muttered, torn between annoyance and amusement, “it’s a hymn. Those wretched creatures are singing a hymn from the mortal church service. They are meant to be angels … mortal men’s angels …” Amusement won. She burst into giggles. “I wonder if I could get permission to bring a few particularly obnoxious ‘saints’ to visit and introduce them to Titania.”

  Mwynwen did not answer. Her attention was fixed on a pair of huge gates, seemingly attached to nothing at all, that blocked the golden path. The gates were elaborately wrought of pearls, and before them stood a large male figure clad in a loose white gown. He had long white hair and a white beard that flowed down his chest.