And Less Than Kind

by Mercedes Lackey

  "I said I owed you a favor, Lord Denno, not that you could threaten me."

  "Your Grace—" Denoriel shook his head "—I do not intend any threat." He took another sip of wine. "I only wish you to know what I have heard when I have visited the Steelyard. This is nothing to do with my business; I do not buy or sell salt and if the Hanse does not sell furs and amber and goldwork to the Court, likely their prices to me will be lower. Nor, to speak the truth, do I care what rite is used to worship y—" Denoriel swallowed down the rest of the word "your" and simply added "—God. I leave that to the priest of my parish church. I am satisfied with whatever the government decrees."

  Norfolk was as little interested in what rite was used as Denoriel. He gave the moments Denoriel took to explain to polish up rusty memories and realized that Lord Denno had not cast off the spots of a leopard for the stripes of a tiger. Denno was, as he always had been, eager only for peace and stability in the realm. Since he dealt mainly in luxuries and wine, upheaval of any kind was bad for his business. Even the rich did not buy Turkey carpets and jewelry in the midst of a civil war. And offending the powerful Hanse trading guild could be dangerous to a shaky reign.

  "I beg your pardon, Lord Denno. I should have known better than to accuse you of threat. Fortunately I am sure that the queen does not mean to be prejudiced against the Hanse merchants because they are mostly Protestant. She just naturally inclines to those who speak her beloved mother's language and attend Mass with her. So, again I must thank you for a word in time. I will speak with the queen and explain why the Hanse must not be neglected."

  "No need for pardon," Denoriel said, smiling and setting aside his now-empty goblet. "I understand that it might have seemed I was trying to interfere in a policy selected by the queen."

  "Not at all. Not at all. Queen Mary hardly thinks in terms of policy yet, and certainly not about what she buys or from whom." Then Norfolk frowned and set aside his own goblet. "As I recall you were once a favorite with Lady Elizabeth. Do you still have the lady's ear?"

  Denoriel laughed. "Not when she is at Court. Lady Elizabeth has no time for an old merchant when she is surrounded by courtiers. I am still somewhat welcome to her when she is in one of her country houses. Then anyone from London is welcome for the news they carry."

  "Too bad." Norfolk frowned. "I thought you might drop a word in her ear. She has professed herself willing to take the queen's faith and become a Catholic, but she is so private in her devotions that few know her change of heart. It would please Queen Mary greatly if her sister would show more enthusiasm for religion."

  Denoriel bit his lip. "I wish I could be of help, but the truth is that I have not seen or spoken with Lady Elizabeth since she left Hatfield on the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth of July. I do not think, however, that Lady Elizabeth's outward lack of enthusiasm should be taken as a sign of any inner lack of conviction. She was never one to make a great show of her faith. More could be determined by what the lady reads than what she says."

  "Ah. That is very helpful."

  "I will try to get word to her that she should be more open about her new understanding and belief, but for a merchant to request and receive permission to visit the Lady Elizabeth . . . A friendship with me would not redound to her credit."

  "Hmmm. I will see what I can do," Norfolk said. "I will have my secretary send you a note."

  Chapter 14

  The joy the people felt at having their country safe in the hands of Henry VIII's heir, was nothing compared with the joy Pasgen felt when he was able to restore Mary's guard to his life and position. Pasgen was careful to record into the man's mind all of the dangers and threats he had helped Mary survive. The guard was a much wiser, more alert, and more cautious man when Pasgen was done with him. In addition, he was filled with pride at his accomplishments and "knowing" what he had accomplished steadied his courage and gave him confidence that would stand him in good stead.

  All but singing hosannas, Pasgen hugged Rhoslyn hard as he stood in front of the small Gate he had created, assured her he would be at the meeting on mortal Tuesday night, and fled Underhill. He had set the Gate for the empty house so that Rhoslyn could use it. Not that he would have minded having Rhoslyn Gate to his domain, but then she would have needed to thread the tortuous route that concealed his home from Vidal and his creatures to get anywhere.

  As it turned out, Pasgen felt he had been rewarded for his consideration of his sister. At the empty house he found a message from Hafwen asking rather querulously where in the Empty Spaces he had been recently. Involuntarily, Pasgen smiled. Hafwen had more spice on her tongue than most Bright Court Sidhe.

  He had been tired when he was finished with Mary's guardsman and had intended to Gate to his own domain from the empty house and do something calm and restful until the dull ache of the iron ubiquitous to the mortal world had leached from his bones. By the second time he read Hafwen's message and ascertained that the seal was truly hers and not some Dark Court trap, he found he wasn't tired and aching at all.

  One of the least mindless servants of the empty house asked whether to transmit new messages to his domain or whether he was returning to the mortal world. For one moment Pasgen wondered at the question and then realized he was still dressed as Mary's guardsman. A gesture decked him out in soft black boots with a dagger down each, fitted black trews, a full-sleeved white silk shirt under a long, black, silver-brocaded vest cinched at the waist with a broad black leather belt which supported his silver rapier.

  Pasgen looked at himself, assessed his inner strength, and then looked around at the house itself and the patiently waiting servant. Something was different. There was more power drifting around and the servant looked somehow more substantial, as if he were healthier and his clothing fit better and was brighter.

  "Transmit, then," the servant said.

  "No, hold them. I will stop here before I go home . . . if I go home, and Lady Rhoslyn will be stopping here too."

  His reply reminded him that Rhoslyn still did not have a home. She had been staying at the empty house when she spent any extended time Underhill and he had been staying there with her so she should not be alone. As he walked from the empty house to one of the Gates nearby, he grinned and wondered whether he should stop doing that. He suspected if he assured Rhoslyn he had other business and could not give her his company that Harry FitzRoy would be only too glad to take his place.

  A bit to his surprise, he found that a pleasant thought. He had always hated Rhoslyn's few associations with any of the Dark Court Sidhe and had wondered uncomfortably from time to time whether he had unnatural feelings about his sister. Now, having spent so much time in her company, he was convinced he had only feared for her. He could not imagine a Dark Sidhe who would not hurt her. Harry was something else altogether.

  Pasgen hesitated before stepping into the Gate. What was happening to him? Not long ago he would have found the company of Harry FitzRoy, who was of an exceptionally good and noble nature, boring and sickening. Now he looked forward to their meetings on mortal Tuesday. If it wasn't one kind of devilment Harry had in mind it was another, and his devilments hurt no one and usually left sweetness behind. Pasgen actually hoped Rhoslyn would find Harry's open admiration something she wished to return.

  Shaking his head, Pasgen ordered himself to mind his own affairs and leave Rhoslyn's to her. His problem at the moment was how to respond to Hafwen's message. No air spirit would come near him or obey him; Pasgen lowered his eyes and suppressed a sigh. How foolish and cruel he had been to destroy that little one only for his momentary convenience.

  He had regretted the bright little dancer's death even as he dealt it and he regretted it more bitterly now. But it was done and he had no way to send a message to anyone in the Bright Court. He would not be welcome in Avalon or Logres himself and he could not send an imp; it would not survive a moment—and he would not send an imp to Hafwen in any case. He stared at the low Gate platform, then stepped up on it smiling. He
could go to Gaenor in Elfhame Elder-Elf. That elfhame cared nothing for Dark or Bright and Gaenor would know how to find Hafwen or send her a message.

  As he stepped off the Gate platform onto the soft, white-flower starred moss of Elfhame Elder-Elf, Pasgen sighed. It was no small walk to the homes of the elder Sidhe. The last times he had come he had been with Gaenor and her beautiful elvensteed Nuin had been waiting to carry them to Gaenor's house. Pasgen drew a quick breath over a sharp pang of mingled joy and pain. Nuin had permitted him to ride; experiences he would always treasure. Then he laughed at himself, shrugged, and set out hoping he would find Gaenor at home.

  Despite the apparent distance between the Gate and the dwellings of Elfhame Elder-Elf, Pasgen made almost as quick progress afoot as he would have astride Nuin. He realized as the ground flowed away under his feet that some spell must have been set to carry those afoot swiftly to the dwellings. He frowned slightly, wondering if that was safe. There were evil creatures Underhill that could and did attack the Sidhe.

  But when he reached Gaenor's house, the door opened before he could call a greeting and the thought came to him that the spell of swift travel might have been keyed to him. Surprised, he stood in the doorway. In that moment Gaenor's voice, tart with disapproval, came out to him, and she followed in person.

  "Well, where in the Empty Spaces have you been? Hafwen and I have sent messages all over Underhill."

  Pasgen blinked. It was strange but oddly pleasant to have anyone but Rhoslyn care about him. "I have not been Underhill, except for a few hours to restore myself, and then I was in my own domain which is sealed against messages. I have been in the mortal world, helping Rhoslyn guard Lady Mary."

  Gaenor snorted. "I suppose that was important. It is a long time since I bothered with mortal folk—except Harry, of course."

  "I am no expert in mortal affairs," Pasgen admitted, "but Rhoslyn—well, she is fond of Lady Mary and wished to protect her. Also, she and all the rest of them are convinced that Lady Mary must reign as queen of Logres before Lady Elizabeth can come to the throne. The FarSeers all agree that Elizabeth's reign will bring a golden age of mortal achievement that will flow over us with untold riches."

  Gaenor's lips parted, most likely to make another sharp remark, but then she closed her mouth and her face stilled as she looked back through time. "Yes," she sighed, "I remember such times. Once there was Atlantis and then those who worshiped the Bull God." She was silent for a moment, sighing again, then shaking herself. "Be that as it may, right now something very, very strange is taking place in the self-aware mist."

  "More creations?" Pasgen tilted his head inquisitively and his eyes brightened with interest.

  Before answering Gaenor looked up at a particularly tiny air spirit that was dancing among the beams that supported her roof. "Find Hafwen," she murmured to the little thing when it descended to dance on a finger she held out. It disappeared promptly, and she looked at Pasgen. "Yes . . . No . . . More creations but no living beings . . . Unless you count grass and trees and such."

  "Grass and trees?" Pasgen looked away at the large window that showed a carefully cultivated garden, but he was not seeing that. "Could the mist be trying to fashion a true domain for . . . for whom? For itself? Can it wish to take living form?"

  Slowly Gaenor shook her head. "I do not think so. The dolls it made did not seem to have that kind of life. We instinctively called them dolls. They did not have even so much life as the constructs Rhoslyn makes."

  "Some of those have too much life," Pasgen said, grimacing. "They think. And Rhoslyn becomes fond of them and weeps as if they were Sidhe when they are damaged or destroyed."

  "She is a great maker," Gaenor said. "Far greater than I. It is a pity she is so bound up with mortal affairs. I think that Rhoslyn might discover what that mist is seeking and likely could control it."

  Pasgen had been smiling rather smugly at the compliment Gaenor gave his sister, but lost his smile and shook his head nervously at the idea of exposing Rhoslyn to the self-willed mist. He uttered an uneasy laugh.

  "Rhoslyn is too softhearted. If she felt the mist's need, it is more likely that she would aid and abet the accursed thing."

  "The mist is not accursed . . . yet."

  Both Pasgen and Gaenor turned to see Hafwen in the doorway.

  "Yet?" Pasgen echoed, and then more sharply, "Do you sense a growing evil in it?"

  "No, but . . . Do not laugh. I think the mist is lonely."

  "Lonely?" Pasgen felt a fool, constantly echoing Hafwen's last word, but she smiled at him and he found himself smiling back and protesting, "But it gets plenty of company. You and Gaenor visit it often, and until I was so taken up with protecting Lady Mary, I came also."

  "Yes," Hafwen agreed, but her voice was doubtful. "Mayhap I should have said the mist is bored. All we do when we come is tell it to be quiet and rest."

  "Ah." Pasgen almost sympathized. He hated to be told to give over a project and rest. He pursed his lips. "I think I understand why you said it is not accursed yet. Idle minds are easily trapped into doing mischief."

  "Not itself doing mischief, but possibly it might be directed to do mischief," Gaenor said. "When I first said that something strange was taking place and told you about the grass and trees, you asked whether the mist was trying to build a domain and then asked for whom. That, I think is a key question. Who will direct the character of the domain the mist wishes to build? Who will live in it?"

  As Gaenor asked those questions, a host of ideas swirled about in Pasgen's mind. His first thought, following from Gaenor's comment about Rhoslyn controlling the mist, was that Rhoslyn needed a domain. And it was true that Rhoslyn in her making did control the mists from which she made her constructs. Caution woke in him. His second thought was whether the "offer" of a domain was really a subtle trap. When one entered the "promised land" would the mist absorb the Sidhe who took the offer?

  "I think before we talk any more about this," Pasgen said. "I had better go with you and see what the mist is doing."

  To that, Gaenor and Hafwen agreed. Outside of Gaenor's house two elvensteeds waited. Pasgen blinked and looked away. He desired an elvensteed with a kind of desperate hunger, as if something within him was empty and needed to be filled, and then he thought of Torgen and felt disloyal. Oh, Torgen was vicious, but not really to Pasgen although he snapped and snarled. Pasgen knew that if the not-horse had really desired to hurt him, it could likely have disemboweled him before he or Rhoslyn could have destroyed it. And Torgen was strong and beautiful . . .

  "Will the seven-league boot spell take me back to the Gate?" Pasgen asked Gaenor.

  "No, no. Nuin will carry you."

  "Or Talfan," Hafwen said, smiling. "You are on Bright Court business, after all."

  As she spoke, the double saddle formed on Talfan's back. Pasgen bowed and thanked the elvensteed as Hafwen mounted. Talfan's eyes, the same blue as Hafwen's were today, fixed on Pasgen and studied him intently. Nervously, Pasgen bowed again.

  "Don't make such a ceremony of it," Hafwen said. "Since the saddle is there, she intends for you to ride."

  She extended a hand, and he came up, swinging his right leg over Talfan's back. Joy suffused Pasgen. He swallowed. Torgen had no joy, no emotion. It was not the poor not-horse's fault. When Rhoslyn made the not-horses, joy was no part of her life, and in any case she would not have thought to instill emotion into her making. Not until she made a simulacrum to replace Harry and had needed something close enough to real life to fool the child's nurses and other attendants . . . Thank the Great Mother that that had gone wrong!

  "Thinking hard, are you?" Hafwen asked.

  Pasgen realized that they had been mounted far longer than an elvensteed usually took to reach the Gate. "No," he said, then laughed. "Yes, I was thinking hard, but not about the self-willed mist . . . or maybe in a way I was thinking of that too. I was thinking of my sister and her makings."

  "I met Richey once," Hafwen said, a faint fro
wn creasing the skin of her brow. "That . . . that was marvelous . . . but dangerous."

  "Very dangerous," Pasgen agreed. "Although she now knows that Richey lived much longer than she expected and died happy, I do not believe she will ever recover from that making." He shrugged. "She might as well have borne a child and had it die. In a way she still mourns him, but she will make no more like that."

  On that last word they arrived at the Gate. Talfan stepped up on the platform. A moment of blackness and falling and they were on the platform of the Gate in the self-willed mist's domain. Pasgen's eyes widened and he slid off Talfan's back, looking out and then around.

  Just beyond the Gate platform was grass . . . mortal-world grass. Pasgen stared down at it. There was no grass Underhill, except in a few domains like the Shepherd's Paradise, which Harry and Denoriel spoke of, where grass had been created specially. Underhill was carpeted by the white-flowered moss. How had the mist heard of grass? From whose mind had it come?

  Pasgen started to step off the Gate platform, and two hands grasped at him. Hafwen had him on one side; Gaenor on the other.