By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  “He … it is dead now?”

  “Yes.” Tears streaked Rhoslyn’s cheeks and she wiped them away impatiently. “Even the full power of several Seleighe healers could not hold poor Richey together forever, but I saw … I saw the man who would have been destroyed had I made the exchange and I thank whatever Powers That Be that I failed. Harry FitzRoy is …” She hesitated and then went on in a rush but in a voice so low that only Pasgen’s Sidhe hearing made out the words. “The other reason … Pasgen, I long for what Elizabeth will bring to the mortal world. Is there no way we can free ourselves from Vidal and make new lives among the Seleighe?”

  Again Pasgen was silent for a long moment; then he said, “There might be, but for what purpose, Rhoslyn? Do you imagine that we would be received with open arms, greeted as prodigal children? If you seek companionship, you will not find it in the Bright Court.”

  “I think I asked you once before how that would be different from what I have here?”

  “The difference would be that you would desire friendship, recognition, from the Seleighe Sidhe. Here, you refuse welcomes offered.” There was another silence during which Pasgen looked down at his own, long-fingered hands wound tightly together. “To be ignored, even actively rejected, by those you admire … that hurts, Rhoslyn.”

  She glanced at him quickly and then away. Beneath a fold of cloth above the breast in her elaborate gown the small construct, like a little furry snake, quivered in response to a distress that did not show in Pasgen’s face or manner. So Pasgen had tried to make contact with some of the Seleighe Sidhe and had been thrust aside or ignored. Rhoslyn touched a finger to the lindys to show she had felt its message and it could now be still.

  “So what is this story about Elizabeth that you started to tell me?” she asked.

  Pasgen’s jaw tightened, but his voice was smooth. “I told you that Denoriel brought her, Harry FitzRoy, Aleneil and two of the elders I thought were already slipped over into Dreaming—only now they are as bright-eyed and lively as new-made—to this Unformed land that I was studying and Vidal appeared at the Gate and challenged Denoriel. More of Vidal’s creatures arrived and those with Denoriel engaged them, but one mage was aiming a spell at Denoriel who was barely defending himself against Vidal.”

  “That he could defend himself at all … He must have been studying magic.”

  “I think so, but he was hard pressed and could not have defended himself against the mage too. His shields were eroded. But Elizabeth used a baby spell”—he smiled—”cilgwythio, in fact, to push the mage away.” The smile grew rigid. “Only she pushed so hard, she crushed him like a grape and flung him into the void.”

  “Oh dear,” Rhoslyn said, feeling a pang. “I had better mention to Aleneil that Elizabeth should be told to add ‘from whence you came’ to her spells. If she keeps flinging people into the void she will draw unwanted attention. Of course, the mage was dead already, but still …”

  “I do not think it was sending the mage to the void. It was the power of the spell itself that attracted Oberon.”

  “Ah.”

  “There is no ‘ah’ in it yet. He stopped the battle and saw me, although no one else had noticed.” Pasgen frowned. “That mist is very strange. I wanted to stay hidden, and it thickened around me. It was …”

  “Did you thank it?”

  “What?”

  “Aleneil said the reason they went to that Unformed land was that Elizabeth had asked the mist to make a lion … and it did … and she thanked it, as if it were a living being.”

  Pasgen stared at her. “Asked the mist to …” He shook his head. “I was pleased I was concealed. Perhaps it felt that.” He hesitated, shook his head again. “No, let me finish this tale or it will never be done and I think you need to know. Elizabeth called Denoriel ‘my Denno.’ Oberon objected and she … she confronted him, threatened him. She said ‘My Denno or no Sidhe will come into the mortal world’ or some such words.”

  “She threatened Oberon?” Rhoslyn said faintly, paling, swallowed, and went on, “But I know she is alive and well. He did not blast her, then. What happened?”

  Pasgen grinned. “Titania. She arrived in a pillar of white lightning, told Oberon that Elizabeth was hers, must not be bent or broken, and then vanished them all away.”

  “And then?” This was more and more interesting by the moment. Elizabeth, that pale mortal girl, challenging the ruler of all the Sidhe? Did she somehow think herself immune? Or was she only courageous to the point of recklessness?

  “I have no idea. I felt at that point that discretion was far better than valor and fled.”

  “My darling Pasgen, I never thought I would hear such sensible words from you,” a light and lilting voice said from the doorway.

  “Mother.” Pasgen got to his feet courteously, then repeated somewhat dubiously, “Mother?”

  The last time he had seen Llanelli she had hair like silver cobwebs, the green of her eyes was soft and faded, and she was thin nearly to transparency. The Sidhe who faced him now was full-bodied, her eyes were a bright hazel, and her hair a thick and vibrant red. She was not pretending not to be Sidhe; the pupils of her eyes were oval and her ears long and pointed, but she was certainly not Sidhe of Logres, either Bright or Dark Court.

  Rhoslyn turned her head and smiled. A chair that had been near the wall, moved to settle between hers and Pasgen’s. “You look tired, Mother.”

  “Well, I am,” Llanelli admitted as she settled into the offered chair. “I had a very interesting case, in fact, a return because the spells I used had not held. A Dark Sidhe who had obviously seized something of iron, although he did not at first tell me the truth and I did not know it.”

  “Not very surprising,” Rhoslyn remarked. “Likely he was in the mortal world without Vidal’s permission.”

  Llanelli smiled. “But stupid when dealing with a healer. His hand was badly burnt and swollen. I had spells to shrink the swelling and to soothe the burn, so he went away satisfied. But, of course, those spells did nothing to remove the poison of the iron so when he should have been healed and the spells dissipated, the poison had moved up his arm and the hand just swelled up again.”

  “It would,” Pasgen remarked dryly, then shook his head at her. “But, Mother, I almost did not recognize you, except that I know your voice so well.”

  “I thought it best to change my looks.” Llanelli frowned. “I did not want the healer, who can be reached so easily, to be too closely connected to you and Rhoslyn.”

  “Very wise,” Pasgen said approvingly, “and stupid of me not to think of a disguise.”

  Llanelli flushed slightly at Pasgen’s praise, which was not lightly given or often forthcoming.

  “But the client,” Rhoslyn put in anxiously, “was he unpleasant? Did the girls protect you quickly enough?”

  “Poor creature,” Llanelli said sympathetically. “No, he offered no threats. He was in too much pain and too frightened. The flesh of his arm was beginning to blacken. To speak the truth, I was frightened too. I did not know what to do at first, so I … I made a guess and had him thrust his arm into that—you remember, Pasgen, that you gave me a decorative piece, a bit of mist from one of the Unformed lands that you had somehow confined. It was very pretty to watch, coiling and flowing.”

  Pasgen sat up alertly. “I remember. You used the mist?”

  “Yes. I had him thrust his arm through the field that contained the mist and I … I willed it to drink up what was not Sidhe substance. And … and I hope it did. At least the flesh lost that black look. But the mist … died? Can mist die? It just disappeared and there was this fine dust—”

  “Do you still have the container with the dust?” Pasgen interrupted eagerly.

  “Oh, yes. I am so glad you are here. Would it be possible for you to give me some more mist?” She looked at him with eager eyes. “I can think of several ways that I might try to use it.”

  “Let me see what remains,” Pasgen said, getting up. />
  Llanelli rose also and Rhoslyn followed them, saying as they crossed the entrance hall that she would meet them in the dining room and tell the servants what to provide for dinner. The wait was longer than Rhoslyn expected and she was considering going after them, just a little afraid that Pasgen had seen something that displeased him and was trying to alter it or was scolding Llanelli. But then they came in together and although Pasgen was looking very thoughtful, Llanelli was smiling happily.

  “I have been thinking,” she said, as she took small portions of each dish, “that I had better decide what to call the new bit of mist Pasgen promised to get for me. It would be better if my clients did not know what cured them. I think it is known among Vidal’s people that you and Pasgen are particularly interested in the Chaos Lands and anything from there might easily be connected with you.”

  “Are you not locking the door after the house has been robbed?” Rhoslyn asked.

  “I hope not,” Llanelli responded. With a faint frown of worry. “I think the Sidhe I treated was too upset to notice more than a sort of cloudy box in which I told him to put his hand and arm. It is certainly not usual to be able to take the mists out of the Unformed lands. I have never known anyone except Pasgen who could do it.”

  “Yes,” Rhoslyn agreed, “which is why it worries me.”

  “Oh, Pasgen,” Llanelli said anxiously, “I hope I have not put you into any danger.”

  He looked up from the thick, bloody slices of meat on his plate and smiled. “Not to worry, Mother. I suspect rather than getting me into trouble, you may have solved a dangerous problem that I had created all by myself.”

  Llanelli smiled, although she had to bite her tongue not to ask “What problem?” She still looked worried, but took a small portion of poached fish onto her fork and lifted it to her mouth. When Pasgen saw her eating, he smiled again and turned toward Rhoslyn, at the same time giving some attention to his dinner. He cut a portion of meat and popped it into his mouth.

  Around it, he said, “So, if King Henry is dead, who will be ruling England?”

  “Edward Seymour, earl of Hertford—although I expect that he will be duke of something or other as soon as the Council gets around to business. Lady Mary was pleased, except that she worries that he is too fond of the reformed religion. She says he has the best right, being Edward’s uncle and I know Mary is quite attached to Hertford’s wife.”

  “So you think she will not try to overset young Edward? She is, after all, an adult and was the first born.” Among the Sidhe, rule was a matter of power and right, not male and female. In fact, many of the most powerful rulers had been and were women.

  Rhoslyn shook her head. “She is a woman and knows she would have little support … well, except perhaps from the ardent Catholics.” She hesitated and then continued. “No, not even from them. If there were no other heir, Mary would come forward to claim her right. She will, if any ill befalls Edward, but so long as he lives, she fully accepts the terms of King Henry’s will. Edward and his heirs first, she and her heirs to follow, and then Elizabeth.”

  Pasgen laughed. “That Elizabeth! The way she stood there as upright as a sword blade and confronted Oberon.” He shook his head, then laughed again, somewhat louder. “I do not envy Denoriel his task in dealing with her.”

  Chapter 3

  Very often Denoriel was so exasperated with his charge that he would have been glad even of Pasgen’s sympathy. However, on the ninth of February as he waited to be summoned to the presence of the Dowager Queen Catherine Parr, Denoriel was very pleased with himself. He was, for once, certain that what he was putting in motion would please Elizabeth.

  In the confusion and jockeying for power in the wake of King Henry’s death, his widowed queen had been thrust aside and nearly forgotten. Although she had been richly provided for in material possessions by the king’s will, no political place, not even with respect to the children she had so lovingly overseen during Henry’s life, had been designated for her. It was as if she had never been queen at all.

  Denoriel had noticed that he was the only person outside of the queen’s own household waiting in the hall for an interview with the Dowager Queen, and he saw that the hall was rather empty, as if the household had been reduced. Catherine, Denoriel thought, was an intelligent and gentle woman, and she had been left as regent by her husband when he was abroad. For all her quiet nature, she was not particularly retiring. She was no fool politically and she must resent being cast aside so brusquely.

  The situation was just as well for his purpose, Denoriel thought, repressing a smile. He suspected that Catherine would be more willing to listen to him, perhaps even willing to press the Council hard to give her governance of Elizabeth. Now he permitted the slight smile that satisfactory thought gave him to show when the chamberlain approached and gestured for him to follow. After all, why not? Elizabeth was only third in line by the rule of the will. Her value to the Crown mostly lay in being a valuable pawn in the marriage game. At least, that would be so far as the Council was concerned… .

  How little they knew his Elizabeth.

  To Denoriel’s considerable satisfaction, the chamberlain did not pass through the hall to the door of the great room beyond. He led the way to a side door that opened into a parlor. It was a pretty room with a handsome bed, at the foot of which stood a large, high-backed armchair in which the Dowager Queen was sitting. A small table was beside her and the chair faced the east wall which held a comfortable hearth.

  The chamberlain announced his name. Denoriel bowed and when Catherine gestured to him, advanced toward her, stepping around the small table and standing to the side so that he would not block the heat of the fire from her. The chamberlain remained near the door.

  “Your Grace,” he said, bowing again. “Permit me to offer my condolences. You, and the entire nation, have lost a very great man. There will be no other like King Henry.”

  Tears misted Queen Catherine’s dark eyes. “He was a being completely out of the ordinary, was he not?”

  “Indeed, madam, he was. I only met him in person once, many years ago, when I was chosen by the earl of Ormonde to act as the Master of Misrule at the Yule festivities—because I could do some silly magic tricks—but even the few words he spoke to me were overwhelming.” That was nothing less than the truth. He had never met anyone, short of Oberon and Titania, with such presence.

  “Yes.” She sighed, but blinked away tears and smiled, saying more briskly, “Magic tricks? My dear Lord Denno, I can hardly believe a sober and successful merchant like yourself could do magic tricks.”

  Denoriel smiled. “It was when Harry FitzRoy—ah, I beg pardon, the late earl of Richmond—was a boy. To amuse him—”

  “The late earl of Richmond,” Catherine interrupted, frowning, her voice a trifle colder, “that was ten years ago. And now you often visit the Lady Elizabeth, do you not? You have been tied to the heirs to the throne for a long time.”

  “Not because they were or are heirs to the throne, madam. Harry—pardon, but he is dead now and I always called him Harry; I find it hard to remember to say His Grace. We met by accident when I rode with a friend to Windsor to do some business with the duke of Norfolk. Harry was so like my own little brother, the one the Turks had killed, so sweet, so good.” Denoriel shrugged, apologetically, and allowed a hint of sorrow to cloud his features. “To ease a long pain, I made it my business to see him again. There was no harm in it.”

  “No harm?” Catherine knew the ways of royalty and those that surrounded royalty. “I am surprised the friendship was permitted when he was the only son the king then had.”

  “Those who oversaw him soon came to realize that I was politically indifferent and desired no favor, except the pleasure the boy’s company gave me.” He sighed. And that was certainly true, completely true. Also true was the fact that though “Lord Denno” had a bloodline sufficiently high to make him appropriate company for the young royals, it was a foreign bloodline, and he had n
o real standing among the native nobles of England, which made him nothing like a threat to anyone else’s ambitions. “Frankly, madam, it is the same with Lady Elizabeth. I have no political interest, no party I wish to favor. I am rich enough to care little to grow richer. But she … Harry loved her so much, so very much. It was, when he died, as if he left her to me as a legacy. I desire only her happiness, nothing more—and it is on her account that I have presented myself to you today.”

  “I can do nothing for you,” Catherine said sharply. “My husband did not see fit to name me among the guardians of his children and the Council obviously has no intention of seeking my advice.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and took on a thoughtful expression. “The more fools they. No one knows the king as well as you do, Your Grace. Poor child, poor child. You could give him some comfort in this time of sorrow.”

  The Dowager Queen’s lips tightened. “There is no chance of that. Hertford desires no influence save his own to come near Edward.”

  Denoriel actually thought that perfectly reasonable, although he believed Hertford was going about sealing his control over Edward the wrong way. The earl would have done far better to have enlisted Queen Catherine’s help. She would have been glad enough to sing his praises to Edward, who loved her dearly and would have believed her, had she been consulted on the boy’s management. But Denoriel was far too wise to show any interest in Edward. He shrugged his shoulders again.

  “King Edward is far above my touch and beyond my ken. Truth to tell, I wish only to protect the Lady Elizabeth, and to see her happy and well-disposed. She feels—” At a sharp glance from Catherine, he nodded. “Indeed yes, Your Grace, I have seen her; her servants know me well, and Mistress Ashley, disturbed by her lady’s despondency, thought I might give her some ease. Lady Elizabeth feels as if the whole world has shattered around her and the very ground is trembling beneath her feet. She was told of her father’s death … and nothing more. She has neither been sent for, nor sent to anyone.”