He gestured toward the table at the back of the room where stoppered flasks stood behind an array of glasses.
But Pasgen was staring at him in a kind of greedy wonder. “You do not need to sit down,” he said, “yet when I came out of the bedchamber door you were nigh fainting. Where have you found power to resist the steel weapons?”
“I am not so sensitive to the effects of iron as most,” Denoriel said.
But even as he spoke, his face took on a puzzled expression and he looked down at himself, almost as if he expected to see something changed or different about his body. He brushed ineffectually at the blood stains on his clothing, then frowned, concern over something taking the place of puzzlement.
Pasgen leaned forward eagerly. “Have you found a way to store power in an amulet or some other …”
“No,” Denoriel said, for a moment looking even more undecided, and then obviously coming to a conclusion. “There is plenty of power in the mortal world. If you look with your inner eyes you will see a mist or miasma of power. I do not know why we Sidhe cannot draw on it.”
“I know about that mist,” Pasgen said impatiently. “I tried to draw it in years ago when I came into the mortal world, and could not. I suspect that is what seeps down Underhill. Something in the transit from one world to another makes it usable to us.” His eyes widened, his face showing a strange mixture of desire and rejection. “Are you telling me that you have found a way to draw power from the mists when I could not?”
“Not from the mists,” Denoriel said, and hesitated as if undecided again. But then he looked at Rhoslyn, at the blood still staining Pasgen’s hands, and continued, “If you look you will see … I do not know quite how to describe it, like clots in the mist, some formed into threads and sometimes even ropes. Do not touch the ropes! They are very dangerous. Power beyond a thousand levin bolts flows in them. I could sense it from a distance when I needed strength, but the Mother kept me from seeking therein. However, the very thinnest threads … It is like drinking lightning.”
“Is that what you did?” Pasgen asked.
Simultaneously, Aleneil cried, “Oh, Denoriel, you said you never would again!”
Denoriel smiled at her. “And that is what I intended, believe me.” He looked from her to Pasgen. “Yes, I drank lightning when I was guarding Harry FitzRoy. I did not know then what a danger it was and I came near to burning out my power channels when I used the mortal power to withstand Vidal in Elizabeth’s bedchamber. I could not so much as light a candle or pass through a Gate for near four years.”
“Yet you did ‘drink lightning’ while fighting.” Pasgen’s voice was utterly neutral as if a conflict between admiration and rejection had brought complete cancellation of emotion.
“Denoriel!”
He laughed gently, coming to bend over Aleneil and kiss her forehead. “When I saw that the choice was between burning away my ability to do magic and death—with your death and Rhoslyn’s added in—the loss of magic did not seem so terrible.”
Aleneil stood up, holding onto the chair. She was still shaky but determined. “Come. Let us go home. Mwynwen will mend you. Come. Quickly.”
Denoriel shook his head and urged her to sit again, going to sit himself in the other chair. “I do not know why, Aleneil, but I do not need mending. I am not in pain, although when I took in that thread it was like a blast of fire and ice together through every vein. But then the pain was gone, and look—” He held out his hand and light glittered along the tips of his fingers.
“Are you sure?” Aleneil asked anxiously.
“It is not something I would be foolhardy about,” he assured her and then, looking at Pasgen’s rapt expression, “In the Mother’s name, Pasgen, if you wish to try that game, be careful. Seek out the smallest, thinnest thread … and do not play the game when you are alone.”
“A healer mended the damage you took?” Pasgen asked.
“Lady Mwynwen had much experience with power. She had a changeling child that she kept alive for many years—”
“Richey,” Roslyn breathed.
“Yes,” Denoriel said gently. “He was a very happy child, until near the end when feeding him power caused him pain. Perhaps that is why she knew what to do for me.”
“But she would not treat one of the Unseleighe?”
“Yes, she would!” Rhoslyn and Denoriel said together.
“She is a true healer,” Denoriel added. “I do not think she can turn away anyone in need.”
Pasgen seemed about to ask another question, but there was a heavy thump in the corridor outside the door. They listened then, aware that there had been voices and heavy footsteps for some time. Pasgen shook his head.
“What have you done to those men that they serve you with such devotion even without orders?” he asked Denoriel, his voice tinged with bitterness and raw envy.
Denoriel laughed softly. “I have lived so long in the mortal world that I think and feel like a mortal. To the men I have done nothing at all, except treat them as a good human master would and put them in the way of bettering themselves. Joseph is honest by nature, and I have made that honesty more profitable to him than trying to steal from me. He feels my trust and gives his in return. As for Cropper, I think his devotion is to Joseph, who rescued him from debtor’s prison.”
“A little kindness and consideration seem a small price to pay for such loyal service,” Rhoslyn murmured.
“In a way, yes. In a way, no.” Denoriel sighed. “When you must be considerate, you must think about the person. And when you think about people, you find yourself as bound to them as they are to you.”
Aleneil laughed suddenly. “I see you did not need that lecture I gave you, love.”
“Again yes and no,” Denoriel said, smiling at her. “You reminded me that I must show that I think about them. Mortals cannot read feelings very well.”
There had been new noises going on in the background during the conversation. Heads turned to listen as the front door opened and slammed shut and conversation died at the sound of several coarse men’s voices loud with shock, more talk, the front door opening and closing again. Finally came a quick scratch on the study door. Denoriel went over and opened it at once.
Joseph Clayborne came in, shut the door behind him, and said softly, “There’s only five bodies, m’lord. I thought it would be too hard to explain the man whose throat was slit. Cropper got rid of him while I tapped the two who didn’t seem to have any reason to die on the head with his cudgel. A broken skull is good enough reason for furnishing worm’s meat. Then I caught the watch and they sent a man off to fetch the constable. Cropper and I are waiting for the constable now, and likely you’ll have to answer questions, but they won’t be hard ones.”
So it proved when the constable, half asleep from being roused from his bed, arrived. He listened to Joseph’s tale about the large sum of money he had been forced to carry home and his fear that the house had been watched. He shook his head over Joseph’s mistaken assumption that the danger was past so that he and Cropper were alone after he dismissed the extra guards. Cropper agreed to every word Joseph said, and the constable said he could go to bed. Cropper left.
Next it was Denoriel’s turn, and he had a most sympathetic listener to his confirmation of Joseph’s information. Denoriel then explained about his having met in a nearby inn his cousin’s good friend, Mistress Rosamund Scott, a maid of honor to Lady Mary. The constable bowed in respect to the name. Clearly the heir to the throne’s maid of honor must not be embarrassed, nor her escort, the Honorable Pasgen Silverhair, harassed.
Thus, Denoriel said, he had unexpectedly returned home to entertain his guests. The constable made shocked noises over their terrible surprise at discovering the invaders and being attacked.
In the end the constable was rather apologetic over the invasion of Lord Denno Adjoran’s household, and he admitted that he knew one of the corpses as a clever rogue, who had managed to escape prison. In no time at all, he h
ad ordered the watch to remove the bodies and he had promised a report that would absolve of any blame Lord Denno, his servants, and his friend the Honorable Pasgen Silverhair. It was an odd name, but odd names did come out of Scotland and Wales. He nodded assurance at the picture of a proper English gentleman of good family (except for the odd name and the blood on his hands) with his blond hair and guileless green eyes.
The ladies, though mentioned, were not required to appear. Denoriel begged the indulgence, confessing that his cousin Lady Alana and her friend had been so overcome by the blood and violence that they had needed to be carried up to bed. The constable gave rapid assurance that he would not dream of troubling maids of honor to Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth and bowed himself out. Everything put him at ease; even if the gentlemen and the servants had killed five men, well they were gentlemen, these were common thieves, and they had spared the Crown the expense of a hanging.
The thieves deserved their fate; the handsome house, the nameplate by the door, with which he was familiar, assured him he could find these people again if he had any further questions. He was quite sure he would find that the other corpses were known offenders and he would have no further questions. And that was assuming that his superiors did not tell him to mind his business and let his betters mind theirs.
Peace restored, Pasgen went upstairs to join Rhoslyn and Aleneil and clean the blood off his clothing and person. Denoriel was about to follow when Joseph asked for a word with him, and drew him into his own office. There he proceeded to confess the whole tale of the woman he had been seeing and his suspicion that her purpose had been to keep him away so that Lord Denno and Lady Alana would be without any support or protection.
Denoriel patted him on the shoulder comfortingly and assured him that he had no need to blame himself since it was not his key that had admitted the assassins but the foolishness of Denoriel’s own servants. If the lady’s only purpose had been to keep him out of the house—that had failed, since Joseph had come just in time to save the groats.
Obviously still shaken by what he felt was dereliction of duty, Joseph burst out, “It will not happen again. I am seeking the hand of Jane Standish, the apothecary’s daughter, and if I am successful, I will be busy in my own bed at night in the future.”
“My very best wishes!” Denoriel exclaimed, exhaustion making him more amused than, perhaps, the circumstances warranted. “From what you say about sleeping in your own bed, may I hope that you intend to bring Mistress Clayborne here to live? There is that extra room near your bedchamber that could be easily changed into a parlor for your lady. It would be very pleasant for me to have a lady always in the house.”
Joseph flushed bright red. “My dear Lord Denno,” he said, somewhat breathlessly “I—I did not mean to presume in such a way. Of course, I did think that to live here after I was married would be a great advantage to me, but—but to assume … without even asking you … That … I am ashamed. And I am not even sure my suit will be successful.”
Denoriel laughed. “I think it will be, and it would be a considerable advantage to me also for you to continue living in the house as I am so much away. But I will not press you, and I will understand if the lady wants a house of her own.” He put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “Your marriage will not change your place here with me, I assure you.”
“Thank you, m’lord,” Joseph sighed. “I am all shaken to bits tonight. I cannot think of what possessed me to make a statement like that … so presumptuous.”
Denoriel tightened his grip slightly. “Not presumptuous between friends, as I hope we are. But you are right that we are all shaken to bits. Let us talk over your happy news at a calmer time. Go to bed now, Joseph. I will see to my guests. Mistress Scott has lodgings very close.”
There was more in Denoriel’s grip and order for Joseph to go to bed than simple words. He had not before used Sidhe compulsion on Joseph, but the man’s eagerness to help was a hindrance right now. In fact, Joseph would remember seeing Mistress Rosamund Scott and the Honorable Pasgen Silverhair leaving in Denoriel’s company and Denoriel promising him that he would have servants from Mistress Scott’s lodging to light him home.
Actually all four Sidhe were gathered in Denoriel’s bedchamber. Having rid themselves of any vestiges of the fight, Denoriel offered to Gate them anywhere they wished to go. Pasgen and Rhoslyn immediately opted for any one of the great markets and Aleneil decided to accompany them because she badly needed to restore her drained power. Without any discussion or hesitation, Denoriel chose the Bazaar of the Bizarre. Even if someone knew Pasgen and Rhoslyn were Dark Court while Aleneil and Denoriel were Bright, nothing was really strange in the Bazaar of the Bizarre. In fact, on the rare occasions that Dark and Bright Court Sidhe met in amity, it was there.
On arrival, though, they stood looking at each other somewhat awkwardly, not quite knowing how to part. They had met before but only briefly and then in an attitude of angry contention. The whole business, from Pasgen’s warning to Denoriel and then his and Rhoslyn’s rushing to Denoriel’s and Aleneil’s defense was so strange. Yet all four had felt somehow more complete, and now found themselves reluctant to part.
Suddenly Pasgen said, “Oh, let’s have a drink and some food at the nearest inn. I have just remembered that I have something important to tell you.”
Sighing with exhaustion, but no longer shaking, the four divided at the huge sign that said no spells, no drawn weapons, no violence on one line and below that on pain of permanent removal. They remained parted to pass the next warning: ymogelyd prynwr, which warned any buyer to beware on his or her own account. The market offered no guarantees. Since they were already on their own feet, they did not bother to read the smaller print: “If you can’t walk, hop, crawl, roll, slither, or whatever it takes to move you on your own, you can’t come in.”
Beyond the signs, they came together again, each wondering a little about why, but not daring to speak of what seemed so natural. Without a word, they followed the first air spirit that called out promise of entertainment and refreshment at an inn only a few steps off the main thoroughfare.
Tafarn Caredig Chewerthin—Inn of Kindly Laughter; Denoriel almost laughed aloud even before entering when he found himself translating the name into English—had wide open doors on an interior made brighter by elf-lights than the soft outdoor twilight. The patrons were the usual odds and sods that came to the Bazaar of the Bizarre, some things that did not seem flesh and blood at all, some weird and wonderful creatures of colors for which no one on Earth had a name, beings tentacled and clawed, Dark Sidhe and Bright, gnomes, kitsune, even toward the back wall, a large, jeweled carapace from under which peered two bright orange eyes.
The variety of patrons was not at all remarkable in the Bazaar of the Bizarre. What was remarkable was the quiet. Everyone was talking, but softly. The only sound that rose above the low hum of quiet conversation was an occasional shout of laughter.
The four Sidhe exchanged glances. The Bazaar had magic, of course, to enforce Removal when necessary, and for some reason there was an unusual abundance of ambient power in all the markets, which was why the depleted Sidhe had chosen the destination. It seemed, however, that the Inn of Kindly Laughter had its own special spells and that those were condoned by whatever power governed the market.
Aleneil smiled and stepped over the threshold, Rhoslyn followed immediately, and somewhat to Denoriel’s surprise, Pasgen was right on her heels. Denoriel did not hesitate, but he wondered as he stepped in if the ambient good will was going to interfere with good sense.
The thought slipped from his mind as he made his way in his companions’ wake to an empty table. As soon as they settled, a kitsune server, dark eyes bright in her fox face, came to ask what they wanted. A pitcher of nectar was agreed upon. Denoriel poured for them all when it arrived as the others, although slowly recovering their strength, might not have yet been able to hold the pitcher steady.
There was another silence as all sippe
d and swallowed. Denoriel wondered, with a small spark of pleasure that he had not expected to feel, whether Pasgen’s remark about needing to tell him something had been an excuse for them to stay together. But before he could find a topic of conversation that was not too trivial but would support remaining in company, Pasgen frowned and set his goblet on the table, although he retained his grip on it.
“Do you remember the Unformed land where you fought Vidal and Elizabeth confronted Oberon?” Pasgen asked rather harshly. “The place where you came to kill the lion that Elizabeth created?”
Denoriel shuddered. “How could I forget it? But how did you know about Elizabeth and Oberon?”
“I was there,” Pasgen admitted. “And no,” he added hastily, seeing the change in Denoriel’s expression, “I had nothing to do with Vidal following you there. I was there before any of you arrived and had been for some time. That Unformed land attracted me.”
He hesitated, looking out over their heads. Rhoslyn put a hand on his arm and said his name in a gentle warning. Pasgen shook his head as if to clear it.
“I have for some years,” he continued “been studying the Chaos Lands. The mists are not all the same.”
“That is true,” Rhoslyn said. “I found out long ago that some Unformed lands are suitable for creation. In others I am less successful—my creations fail or are ill-formed.”
“Yes,” Pasgen said, clenched his jaw and then relaxed it deliberately. “But that one—” his hand gripped the goblet tighter. “Tell your friends not to go there,” he said grimly, “not to use those mists for creation. They … in that domain they are … I fear they are growing sentient. There is a purpose in them, and a kind of intelligence.”
Denoriel could see that Pasgen’s hand was white with the pressure he was exerting on his goblet. It was clear to him that some powerful emotion had gripped his half brother. Yet it seemed impossible to Denoriel that an Unformed land, a mass of formless mist, could possibly become anything at all without direction.
By Slanderous Tongues Page 23