By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  The echo of Elizabeth’s own words hammered home the meaning. Edward was king because her father was dead!

  Cold swept over Elizabeth again and she shuddered. It did not seem possible that Henry VIII could be dead. He had always been there ruling England. He had always been larger than life, the one most important being in the world. He had always directed her fate. How could he be dead? How could ten-year-old Edward be king?

  And, she swallowed hard, where did that leave her? What would be her place now? Would the provisions of her father’s will be kept? Would she remain the second in line for the throne? What would happen to her?

  Underhill. Elizabeth could barely think the word and her lips would not form it, even silently, but she knew it was there, a safe haven if all else failed. She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap and shuddered.

  Was Underhill still there for her? Too vivid in her mind was the dreadful quarrel she had had with Underhill’s king. How could she have been so foolish? Surely after dealing with her father, knowing that meekness and devotion were the only paths to winning any concession from him, she should have known better than to openly contest King Oberon’s will. But it was for her Denno! She had nearly lost Lord Denno!

  Nearly lost him more than one way, Elizabeth thought, but she did not feel like weeping over that memory. Although she was frightened by remembering, she was also warmed by recalling how Denno had leapt in front of her to shield her from any blow Oberon might have launched.

  She was thrilled to see with her own eyes Denno’s devotion. Still—she should have been more careful. Denno always said he would guard her to his death. This time it might have come to that. But Queen Titania had come just in time and snatched them out from under Oberon’s power, sending them all whirling back to where they belonged.

  Nonetheless, the last look she had had of King Oberon’s face had not been reassuring. She had feared he would loose the blast he planned for her at his queen. But Denno had assured her that Queen Titania would not be hurt because King Oberon desired her above all else. Elizabeth was glad to hear that, but Denno looked … odd when he said it. His eyes had taken on a kind of glazed shine and his lips seemed to be fuller than usual. Suddenly Elizabeth wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips.

  For a moment she was shocked at the thought. Lady Elizabeth, the king’s daughter, the third highest lady in all of England, thinking of kissing a common merchant! Of course, he was a lord in his own world and she had kissed Lord Denno before, a peck on the cheek, when he had particularly pleased her, but … Elizabeth looked into the fire again, feeling warmer. This was different. She had not been thinking of a light peck of gratitude when she thought of Denno’s lips.

  Should she try … No! He would be so shocked. He thought of her only as a child and she was forever getting him into so much trouble. This last visit Underhill Oberon had threatened to strip Lord Denno of his powers and send a new guardian to watch over her. Elizabeth felt herself growing furious all over again. How dare Oberon make free with her people?

  “Well,” Kat’s voice broke into Elizabeth’s thoughts. “I believe if you just make all the centers of the flowers gold, and perhaps stitch a line of silver around most of the leaves that you will not have to unpick anything. Perhaps I can find a pearl or two to add to the bottom of the place marker.”

  Elizabeth agreed readily, took back the embroidery, and began to stitch at it again, smiling slightly. Yes, Denno was hers, yet it was true that Denno was also King Oberon’s subject. Elizabeth sighed, but this time her fingers did not falter on her work. Her own father would have been no more accepting if a foreign person had claimed first right to one of his subject’s services.

  Yet, Elizabeth thought, she did come first. Denno had gone Underhill to find out whether King Oberon had truly been angry or only seeking information in his own devious way. Elizabeth had a sudden, vivid mental picture of Lord Denno, an image of courage and defiance, facing his king. Her heart squeezed tight in panic. She hoped he had not found more trouble trying to serve her. She wished he would come. He had been gone for several days.

  Elizabeth’s Lord Denno in his own place was Lord Denoriel Seincyn Macreth Silverhair, warrior and noble among the Seleighe Sidhe, rider with Koronos in the Wild Hunt … and chosen by the FarSeers of Avalon to guide and protect the red-haired woman who—if she came to the throne—would bring such glory and honor to England, much joy and power to the Seleighe Sidhe.

  He had not willingly taken up the duty laid upon him by the FarSeers, among whom was his own twin sister, Aleneil. Denoriel, the warrior, had been appalled at being turned into a nursemaid. But he had found far more danger, interest, and excitement in the mortal world than ever touched him Underhill. Being a merchant was fascinating. He did not need the money, of course. He could ken gold to fill his coffers with little effort, but seeking merchandise and buying and selling to earn a profit …

  Denoriel laughed aloud and stepped into the room in which he mostly lived, when—more and more rarely these days—he was in his apartments at Llachar Lle, the so-called Summer Palace in Elfhame Logres. Lachar Lle—Denoriel often remarked that he could not imagine why it was called the Summer Palace since the weather Underhill invariably suited itself to the being experiencing it and never changed. The thought flicked through his mind and he dismissed it. His twin sister Aleneil was already waiting, and Denoriel sat down in a cushioned chair opposite the sofa she had chosen.

  He had long since accepted the fact that they no longer looked much like twins. Aleneil, like most Sidhe, showed no sign of ageing; her hair was spun gold, her eyes emerald green, their black long oval pupils enhancing the color. Her complexion was a flawless, lucent white with just enough rose in cheeks and lips to confirm her blooming health.

  Familiar with his own image, because in the mortal world he often needed to look into a mirror to check that illusion covered his oval pupils and long, pointed ears, Denoriel knew he was the one who had changed. The battle with Vidal and his minions when Elizabeth was a baby had damaged him.

  No, not actually the battle but his drinking the lightning that was the magic of the mortal world in order to fight when his own strength was gone. His hair was white now rather than gold, lines of pain creased the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth, and his skin was tanned and hardened by its exposure to the sun and changeable weather of the World Above. Fortunately no further damage had been done him in this last confrontation with Vidal. Whatever curse Vidal had cast on him that caused him such pain, Oberon had negated.

  The changes were all to the good, of course. He would have had to remember to disguise himself with such changes as the years passed so that Elizabeth’s human governess and household officers did not wonder why thirty years had left no mark on him. Now there was no need, only to remember to make the pupils of his eyes look round and hide the long pointed ears behind an illusion of human ones.

  At least Aleneil no longer asked anxiously if he was well each time they met. She had grown accustomed to his new appearance.

  “What a frown,” Aleneil said, looking away from the scene of a meadow with a manor house fronting a small copse of trees that one saw through the window of Denoriel’s parlor. There was now a glimpse of silver water off to the side of the trees; it was an enchanting illusion, all the more intriguing because it seemed to grow and change. Denoriel’s skill with magic was continuing to increase, Aleneil thought approvingly.

  “I was just thinking of Prince Vidal Dhu.”

  Aleneil made a face. “I agree, thought of Vidal is enough to make anyone frown. I try not to think of him at all.”

  Denoriel shook his head, and his frown deepened. “No, Aleneil, we must think of him. Elizabeth is now second in the succession and Vidal has recovered most of the cleverness and power—I can vouch for that; he nearly had me in that last fight—that he lost when we first fought over Elizabeth.”

  Now it was Aleneil who frowned. “Yes, but I worry less about Vidal himse
lf than about the fact that he is Prince of Caer Mordwyn and he controls perhaps a score of Dark Sidhe, not to mention endless ogres and boggles and phookas and hags and Mother knows what else.”

  “Most of those are useless,” Denoriel replied, dismissing the minions with a gesture. “He cannot, without bringing Oberon’s anger down on him, send the monsters into the World Above and most of the Dark Sidhe are even more sensitive to the iron in the mortal world than the Seleighe are. But speaking of Oberon, I wonder what happened between him and Titania when she sent us all to our own places.”

  Aleneil laughed heartily. “Coward! I came to Lachar Lle as fast as I could Gate from Avalon, and you had already fled to the mortal world so you wouldn’t be Underhill while Oberon and Titania settled their differences.”

  “I don’t like earthquakes,” Denoriel said dryly and added, “but they are settled?”

  “Yes, abed as usual.” Aleneil’s lips twisted. “He cannot resist her—nor she him, especially when they are furious with each other.” She rolled her eyes and flushed delicately. “Most fortunate. But their lust is so all-pervading and powerful that their reconciliations have a strong effect throughout the Seleighe Court.”

  “Then it is just as well that I was in the World Above,” Denoriel said, somewhat sourly. “As I presently have no one on whom to vent such desires. I have been chaste as a Christian priest since I became entangled with the Tudors.”

  The last word cued something in his mind, and Denoriel had a sudden, vivid vision of Elizabeth, her flaming hair spread over the pillows of his bed, her white body … He cut off the thought and forcibly brought to mind Titania’s perfection, but golden round-pupilled eyes, not green, gazed reproachfully at him.

  “What are you thinking about,” Aleneil said, grinning.

  “That I am tired of being chaste,” Denoriel replied, deciding hastily that he had better find a willing partner before he went back to the World Above.

  “You may not have time to mend that condition,” Aleneil said, suddenly serious. “Do you remember that we have been wondering whether the Visions in the great lens were predictions of a likely future or just future possibilities as usual?”

  “Yes. I am no FarSeer, but it seemed to me that the lens was showing what would be this time—that Edward would rule, then Mary, and then Elizabeth.”

  Aleneil shook her head. “There is another Vision.”

  “Do not tell me the one of Elizabeth is gone!” Denoriel exclaimed, getting to his feet, a hand on his sword hilt.

  “No, no. Mary’s fires burn and Elizabeth’s glories still appear, but there is another.” Aleneil folded her hands in her lap, and her eyes clouded.

  Denoriel sat down again, frowning. “A boy or man? Is there some male heir we have overlooked?” His lips thinned with impatience. “Then there is no certainty in what you have Seen. The Visions are still only possibilities.”

  “I suppose so, but it is not a male we see. It is another girl, younger she seems than Elizabeth, a small, thin creature that looks so sad it breaks my heart.” Aleneil had been much taken with the poor waif she had seen in the Vision. Like all the Seleighe Sidhe, she loved children, even those of mortals, and it made her want to weep when one looked so tragic, so lost. It was a very brief Vision, only of her weeping as someone—we do not recognize the man; his face is hidden—holds out a crown.”

  “A small, thin creature with sad looks?” Denoriel cast the net of his memory wide, and immediately snared a prospect. “I wonder if that could be Lady Jane Grey? She was in the group of girls that Queen Catherine Parr gathered to be schooled with Elizabeth, and was the only one small and thin and sad. This Jane was Elizabeth’s only rival in her love of books and learning.”

  Aleneil blinked. “But why in the Mother’s name should she appear in the lens?”

  For a long moment Denoriel was silent. Then he said. “Jane Grey’s mother, Frances Brandon, was named in King Henry’s will. I have committed to memory every word of that will so that I will understand what pertains to Elizabeth.”

  Aleneil shook her head. “But who is Frances Brandon to be named in the late king’s will?

  “I was curious also. My friend Sir Anthony Denny explained. Frances Brandon is the daughter of Henry’s sister, Mary—she who married her childhood love Charles Brandon after she became the widow of the king of France. Yes, Henry was determined that no Scot would ever rule England, so he cut out the heir of his aunt Margaret, the current king of Scotland. The succession was set to be Edward, Mary, Elizabeth, and if all else failed, Frances Brandon or her heirs.”

  “So we are Seeing the three possibilities according to the provisions of the late king’s will.”

  “So it seems.” Denoriel was silent for a moment and then he said slowly, “The old Visions of the queens look the same? I mean, neither Mary nor Elizabeth is old?” Aleneil nodded and Denoriel continued, frowning. “I cannot see what that can mean except that Edward, who is king already, will not reign long.”

  “I fear so,” Aleneil said sadly. The loss of any child was a tragedy to the Sidhe who had so very few.

  “So one of the three will reign after Edward?”

  Aleneil took a deep breath. “Usually that is what Visions one virtually atop the other mean. But in this case, Eirianell does not think so. She said that she had once before Seen a like set of Visions. She now wonders whether what we have seen are not alternatives but what will be, that each of the heirs will, in turn, take the throne. Oddly, the new Vision did not disturb her at all—except that she warned more strongly than ever that a change in the lives of any of these women will alter the future that has been shown for all. And she feels that all of them will be threatened in some way.”

  Eirianell was the eldest and wisest of the FarSeers. She had gazed into the great lens and interpreted the Visions that rose in it since Atlantis had sunk beneath the waves. If she stated an opinion, Denoriel would not doubt her. He bit his lip.

  “Vidal’s FarSeers will have the same Vision,” he said, forehead creasing into an even deeper frown. “A new Vision will likely set him to trying to remove both Jane Grey and Elizabeth. I cannot protect them both. I wish I knew how he interprets the Visions.”

  “I can find out,” Aleneil said. “I can ask Rhoslyn.”

  “What?” Denoriel’s voice rose with shock.

  Rhoslyn Teleri Dagfael Silverhair and her twin brother, Pasgen Peblig Rodrig Silverhair, were to Denoriel’s regret his and Aleneil’s half brother and sister. Their common father, Kefni, had been caught in a powerful fertility spell woven by Rhoslyn’s and Pasgen’s mother Llanelli. Powerless to resist, Kefni had coupled with her and made her pregnant, but inwardly he was furious at the use made of him, so he had rushed home to his lifemate, Denoriel’s and Aleneil’s mother, and using the remains of the spell had impregnated her also.

  Children were very rare among the Sidhe. When the Unseleighe learned of the two sets of twins, they raided the Seleighe domain during the celebration of their births and abducted all of them. Kefni, a great warrior, followed swiftly, caught the party that had Denoriel and Aleneil, killed two, and wrested the babies from them. Having returned the twins to safekeeping in Avalon, he set out to recover his other children.

  Kefni was wounded and tired but he did find Rhoslyn and Pasgen. Unfortunately a still larger party of Unseleighe was on his heels. He sought to take refuge in a church, where he would be safe from most of the unholy creatures and would only need to fight off the Dark Sidhe, but he was denied the refuge by the priest, warding him away with Cold Iron. Kefni died and the children were carried back to Vidal Dhu’s domain. Pasgen and Rhoslyn would have died too, if Llanelli had not followed them into painful and hateful exile.

  Of course it was not Pasgen’s and Rhoslyn’s fault that they had been raised by the cruel and treacherous Unseleighe. But in Denoriel’s opinion the trees had grown as the twigs had been trained.

  “Rhoslyn is not a safe source of information about Elizabeth,” he ad
ded to the exclamation of surprise.

  “She is different now,” Aleneil protested, her gaze earnest. “Since Elizabeth explained what happened to the changeling Rhoslyn had created, that you had not murdered it but it lived many years as Richey with Mwynwen, Rhoslyn has sworn she will do her best to smooth Elizabeth’s way and to protect her.”

  “She is a liar!” Denoriel insisted stubbornly, memories of Rhoslyn’s disguise as the false nun all to vivid in his mind. “Do not trust her, Aleneil.”

  Aleneil sighed, wishing she could make her brother see Rhoslyn as she had, and did. “Creating Richey changed Rhoslyn. That changeling could not have meant more to her than if he had been a child of her body. More than half her animosity toward Elizabeth was owing to her wish to hurt you as she had been hurt. Once she knew you had not murdered the little boy, that he had lived happily with Mwynwen for years, much longer than anyone could have expected—”

  “Aleneil,” Denoriel interrupted, “can you not see that her very conviction that I would kill a child—even a changeling child—marks something rotten in Rhoslyn?”

  “No,” Aleneil replied quietly. “I see that she has lived with cruelty and expects only that from others. But what she wrought with Richey—you did not know him as I did; you were busy with Harry—but Richey had the same sweetness and goodness as Harry. He was more childlike, as is to be expected, but he was—I would have said, he almost seemed to have a soul. I do not think, even with the miracle that Rhoslyn wrought, that a made thing could grow like a true mortal, and yet—Richey was so near as to convince me of his nature. And there was nothing evil in Richey.”

  “That is true,” Denoriel murmured. “He was good all through, with the same generosity and self-sacrifice as are so much a part of Harry.”

  “How could she have done that and be black evil herself?” Aleneil insisted with a shake of her head. “I cannot believe it.”