“Careful,” he said to Pasgen, tapping his fingers, “you will shatter that goblet.” And then, “But—”
His voice checked as Pasgen took a large gulp of his drink and set the goblet down. Denoriel had remembered that Elizabeth had said the mist had made the lion, that she did not know how to make it and had “asked” the mist. The memory eliminated his first reaction, which was to suggest that Pasgen had been indulging in some mind-altering drug, and his second, which was to wonder what evil Pasgen had set up in that domain that he wished to hide.
“Sentient,” Denoriel repeated. “That is hard to believe.”
“It was not easy for me either,” Pasgen snapped, “and I will admit, which is also not easy, that I was so frightened when I was forced to believe I came near to fouling myself.”
“What happened?” Aleneil asked, reaching out to touch Pasgen’s hand which was clenched tight and very cold.
“The place was strange when I first came to it,” Pasgen said. “The mists seemed to respond to my thoughts, and that troubled me, but not at first because of any doubt about the mists. I was worried about my own reactions, wondering whether I was exerting my will without real intention … which can be dangerous.”
“Yes, indeed,” Aleneil murmured.
“But the oddity and my self-examination kept me there. I decided to stay for a while and made a chamber for myself. Considering that I am no maker, like Rhoslyn, it was surprisingly easy. I suppose I should have suspected then that this domain was no ordinary place, but I was still thinking mostly about myself, about my seeming inability to be aware of willing or stop myself from willing.” He looked at Denoriel. “And then your party arrived.”
Denoriel nodded. “King Henry had just died, and we were trying to distract Elizabeth from her grief. We knew she would think unfitting a ball or a trip to one of the markets but then she remembered the lion she had … ah … asked the mist to create and said it was dangerous, that it had killed two men and almost killed her, so we went to hunt it down.”
“It is gone now,” Pasgen said, took a deep breath, and described the attack of the lion, the two ill-made figures that seemed an attempt to mimic Elizabeth and himself, and the whole incredible sequence of events, ending with a confession of the terrible desire he felt to return to the domain.
No one made a sound while he spoke and when he was finished, the silence continued. No one disputed the tale. Aleneil covered her face with her hands and shivered. Denoriel looked grim as death. Rhoslyn took Pasgen’s hand, which was trembling slightly. After a moment he pulled his hand away from her, straightened in his chair, and tried to sound nonchalant.
“I told you because I felt Elidir and Mechain should be warned against using that domain for their makings.” His pose faltered and his voice was tired.
“Merciful Mother, you are so right.” Denoriel shook himself as if he could throw off the cloak of fear Pasgen had woven. “I will tell Harry. Thank you.” He hesitated and then said, “But can we leave that place as a possible trap for the unwary? We have to do something.”
“I agree,” Pasgen sighed. “But what?”
Chapter 15
They had come to no conclusion when the four finally parted. Pasgen offered, (rather too willingly, Denoriel thought) to go back to that Unformed land and see what he could see. Rhoslyn objected. Pasgen promised not to leave the Gate but just stand there and examine the mist and anything the mist chose to show him. He could depart on the instant if he saw or felt anything threatening.
“No,” Rhoslyn said. “Or maybe, yes—if you will let me pattern the Gate and stand ready to snatch us out of there as soon as I feel threatened.”
He frowned, but only slightly. “You will feel threatened at the first swirl forward of the mist.”
“I am not new to making,” she replied, with a little tartness, but only a touch.
What surprised Denoriel was the amiability of the exchange. He wondered again if something in the Inn of Kindly Laughter should be held suspect, but Rhoslyn and Pasgen were brother and sister and often together. He and Aleneil often disagreed amiably too.
“Pasgen,” Aleneil put in, “Rhoslyn is right. I don’t think you should trust yourself. You will see something that will make you curious and follow it, perhaps into terrible danger. On the other hand, Rhoslyn, someone should take another look at this place. And I think, if it is as you said, Pasgen, that we had better take this problem to Oberon and let him decide what to do.” She paused, and added, “He is, after all the High King of us all, Bright Court and Dark.”
All four fell silent, looked at each other, then looked at the table. After another moment Denoriel said, “Elidir and Mechain are old and experienced makers. Perhaps they should be the ones to look and … ah … take the news to Oberon if they do not know what to do.”
“No!” Pasgen’s voice was tight and almost sounded as if it were forcing a way through a solid obstruction. “I do not want the mist hurt. It did nothing to harm me. It did not try to save the vicious lion. It did not try to imprison me. If it—if it is learning to live, how can we dare kill it?”
There was another silence, as Denoriel tried to take in all the implications of what Pasgen had just said. Denoriel thought that a very strange sentiment for the notoriously cruel and wanton Dark Sidhe, but he said nothing. Rhoslyn looked appalled, holding tight to her brother’s hand. Aleneil looked very troubled, plainly thinking over what Pasgen had said and possibly wishing to save the mist.
Denoriel shook his head. “I think we can trust Elidir and Mechain not to take any precipitous action. They need not fear any inimical beasts because Harry can use his steel gun if it is necessary. I will go with them also. When they come to a decision—if they come to a decision—I promise that we will do nothing until we discuss the matter with you. Would you be willing to make such a compromise, since Rhoslyn seems to fear danger for you if you go yourself to that place?”
Pasgen thought it over, biting his lower lip. Finally he nodded, slowly, reluctantly, and sighed. “I will agree, not because I think I would be in any danger if I went there, but because … because I want to go too much.”
“Thank you, brother,” Rhoslyn breathed.
“Now, how will I be able to let you know what Elidir and Mechain have discovered?” Denoriel asked.
A brief, awkward silence ensued. Denoriel knew that Pasgen and Rhoslyn knew where he lived, but neither wanted to come into Seleighe lands without being accompanied. Aleneil had taken Rhoslyn to Mwynwen’s house so that Rhoslyn could ask about Richey. Rhoslyn had met Harry there and, oddly, that seemed to comfort her more even than the tale of Richey’s mostly happy life. And neither Pasgen nor Rhoslyn was prepared to provide direction to their own domains.
“Ah,” Pasgen said. “You could leave a message for us in the empty house. Not that the house is really empty, but neither Rhoslyn nor I live there. Likely neither of us will be there, but the servants are designed for taking messages and will not make any mistakes in transmitting them. You can suggest a place and time to meet. And if we cannot come then, Rhoslyn will send an air spirit to make a new arrangement where and when we should meet.”
“All of us,” Aleneil said quietly.
“Yes, all of us,” Rhoslyn repeated.
That promise seemed to ease the awkwardness all had felt about parting. Denoriel raised a hand to call the kitsune server to them and signed he would cover the cost for all. Pasgen and Rhoslyn nodded thanks and left the inn. Denoriel had gold coins in his hand, but the server shook her head.
“What can you supply to us?” the kitsune asked.
“Mortal goods,” Denoriel replied promptly, then his eyes sought the bejeweled carapace and orange eyes, which were still in the back of the room. He remembered Elizabeth’s bargain with the crab person of Carcinus Maenas and laughed. “How about a cask of fish, real mortal fish, fresh or salt.”
“Done,” the server said, and dropped a thin wooden amulet in Denoriel’s hand. “Put that
on the cask in any Gate and the fish will get to us.”
Denoriel took Aleneil’s arm as they left the inn to offer support. She smiled at him when they stepped up on the Gate. “Pattern me home, love,” she said with a sigh. “I am better, but still very weary and I need to rest. Mother Goddess, that iron hurts. It seems to draw the very life out of me, and every time that beast thrust at me, my shields became so eroded that I had to build them anew. I was drained to the dregs. Pasgen and Rhoslyn were both trying to come to my assistance, but they were even worse hurt by the man’s steel. If Joseph had not come when he did …”
In Avalon where the Gate set them, the blank-faced guards nodded in recognition. Ystwyth was there, waiting, her large brown eyes turned anxiously on her friend. Denoriel boosted Aleneil into the saddle so the elvensteed would not need to kneel, and they were gone. Miralys, after a glance at Denoriel, simply stepped up on the Gate platform and allowed Denoriel to whisk them both away to Elfhame Logres. As the steed started toward the palace at an ordinary horse’s trot rather than the space-eating gait he could use, Denoriel told the elvensteed what had happened.
Without instruction, Miralys then changed direction and carried Denoriel, not home, but to Mwynwen’s house at the far end of the elfhame. Denoriel was not certain whether Miralys was bringing him to the healer to be examined for any ill effect of drinking lightning or because Harry lived with Mwynwen; however, Denoriel did not care which was true.
If Harry was not at home, Denoriel thought, he would try the Elfhame Elder-Elf, although these days—Denoriel grinned broadly—it would be better called the Busybodies’ Elfhame. A very few of those who had taken refuge there had slipped away into Dreaming before Harry arrived. Afterward, one by one he found challenges for them that shook them out of boredom and often thoroughly terrified them so that they came alive.
Harry had arrived at the Elfhame Elder-Elf by accident, not being very experienced with patterning Gates. Wandering, lost, through the beautiful domain, he had found two drooping beings, white haired, rather limp, who had looked at him kindly but with eyes misted with age. Not knowing how to reorient himself, he had asked them for help and noticed that both became more animated as they explained what he had done wrong.
That they were puzzled by his ineptitude was clear and Harry never minded making himself the butt of a joke. By the time he had told them the whole tale of how he came Underhill, that he was Prince Denoriel’s ward and Lady Mwynwen’s lover and patient, both suggested that they go with him to his intended destination, the Elves’ Faire. Young, pretty mortals, they said, were in some danger of being enticed by strange promises, seduced out of the market, and snatched away and sold.
Harry had been to the market with Denoriel many times and was in no danger of being seduced by false temptations. Moreover, as the illegitimate son of the King of England, who for some years could not seem to breed another boy, there had been no temptation, no inducement, that had not been offered him so he would whisper things in his father’s ear. Harry knew how to refuse temptation, but he did not say that. He saw how the old Sidhes’ bodies had straightened, how their faces lost the slackness of total boredom when they offered to guard him from harm.
He did not pretend he did not know they were old. He asked them questions about the past, and eventually one of them told him about the danger mortals held for Underhill. As examples, they described the cursing of Alhambra and El Dorado by the priests of the Inquisition and the evil that still lived there.
Harry’s eyes widened and his fair skin flushed with anger. “What revenge had been taken for such insult?” he cried. And when Elidir and Mechain looked at him blankly—the Sidhe were mostly shallow creatures who did not feel deeply about anything—Harry asked if they had no pride.
Pride the Sidhe had. When Harry put the case in that light, that it was an insult that a Sidhe domain should be given over to human evil, both frowned in displeasure. Harry nodded agreement and asserted firmly that it was time, then, to clean out the cesspools.
They sighed, slumping again, and told him they did not think they could raise an army sufficient to attack the cities. Harry laughed aloud. Elidir and Mechain were puzzled. The places had been lost by battle; the Sidhe could not imagine any other way to regain them. But Harry had been well taught in every form of political chicanery and covert military maneuver. “Let me see the cities,” he said, “and I will find a way that we three, with perhaps a few friends, can destroy or drive out the evil.”
First they had to find the cities, so long lost from the known places of Underhill. Elidir and Mechain had to rediscover ways to search through ancient forms of patterning. Magic skills long disused were awakened. Fighting skills, too, because both of the Sidhe felt responsible for the hapless mortal and believed they would need to defend him.
Two of the elder elves were soon as bright as new buttons. And when they took Harry to Alhambra and they were attacked, their defensive magic—and Harry’s well-wielded sword were barely enough to bring them away safe. All three were furious and resolved one way or another to be rid of the disgusting menaces in the breathtakingly beautiful hame. They went to a market to eat and drink and make plans.
From that time to this, Elidir and Mechain, and a half dozen others strong in magic had no time to be bored. They had been laboring, often in great danger, to clean the lost elfhames from evil. Other problems cropped up from time to time and came to Harry’s ears or Mwynwen’s. Harry promptly brought the problems—and an inventive solution—to the Elfhame Elder-Elf. Denoriel now enjoyed a visit to a place that had once been full of sorrow—but the path of this endeavor must take him to Mwynwen’s house first.
Mwynwen greeted Denoriel pleasantly, as she had no urgent patient, and was plainly interested when he told her about his lack of reaction to taking in mortal magic. She examined him closely and agreed that he seemed unharmed. Perhaps the scarring of his power channels had made them more resistant, but she urged him to be very careful; resistant channels might also be more brittle. A tear would be a disaster.
He attended to her advice seriously, and readily assured her that only dire necessity would drive him to touch mortal power. The spell that drew power to him Underhill was more than enough. When he asked for Harry, however, she showed some signs of irritation.
“Not here,” she said. “When is he here?”
“Every sleep time for him, I am sure,” Denoriel replied, laughing.
“Oh, yes,” Mwynwen said, not laughing in response. “He is strong and eager enough in making love, but he does not really need me anymore. The elf-shot poison is gone. I have not needed to drain him for a year. And he seems so sure of himself. He has learned to read and write Elven and he never asks my advice … well, now and again when he is not sure of Sidhe protocol. But if I suggest something to him—”
Denoriel laughed again. “He is a grown man now, Mwynwen, and mostly knows his own mind. If you wished to share his adventures, I am sure he would welcome you.”
“I do not! Killing and trapping!” She shuddered. “I know the things he and his old Sidhe take and destroy are evil, but for me—” She shivered again.
Denoriel shrugged. He did not, of course, agree with or even understand her response even though Aleneil reacted similarly. He had been a member of Koronos’ Wild Hunt for more than a hundred years, and their purpose was much the same—to destroy evil that otherwise would escape.
He managed to say something polite, and then said, “I will try the Elfhame Elder-Elf then, but if I should miss Harry and he should come in, would you tell him to come to my apartment in Llachar Lle?”
She shook her head and sighed, but agreed to pass on the message, and Denoriel went out to remount Miralys. Elder-Elf’s Elfhame could be patterned directly from the Logres Gate, and everyone there knew Harry. Someone had seen him and waved vaguely in the direction of Sawel’s house, warning Denoriel that he should approach with care as there were frequent explosions. Denoriel chuckled. They were trying to do
something with holy water, possibly to disguise it so the black entities in Alhambra would not recognize it, could be doused with it, and destroyed. Whatever it was Sawel was trying, the holy water did not approve!
As Miralys carried him in that direction, moving again no faster than a mortal horse lest he run down a busy and absent-minded elder, Denoriel suddenly “reheard” what Mwynwen had said about Harry. Miralys stopped and Denoriel patted his silken shoulder in appreciation.
“Right,” he said to the elvensteed, “I’ll walk. I need time to think.”
But he didn’t walk. A gesture brought a bench when Miralys had disappeared, and Denoriel sat down on it. He had always known, although with typical Sidhe avoidance of the unpleasant he had refused to think about it, that Mwynwen had never cared for Harry as a human woman would care for her lover. At first it was irrelevant, as Harry’s primary need was for healing. And even when he saw that Harry was enamored, what could he do?
Mwynwen had lost the “child” she had been raising for ten years. Richey, as she had named him, was not a living child but a changeling, which Mwynwen had kept “alive” with a spell that constantly fed it power so that it would not fall apart. The changeling’s body had grown, except for its expressions, which retained much of the sweet innocence of the ten-year-old it had been when it came into Mwynwen’s keeping.
Physically Richey continued to closely resemble Henry FitzRoy. At seventeen, both were dying, Richey because its made body could no longer absorb the power it needed to stay intact; Harry from the poison of an elf-shot wound taken in defending Elizabeth from capture by Vidal Dhu. It had been possible, at Richey’s request, to exchange the young men so that Richey could die in peace and Harry be healed, although Harry was permanently exiled to Underhill because he was dead and buried in the mortal world.
Mwynwen, heartsick with grief over losing her child, which was about the only strong emotion most Sidhe could feel, agreed to cure Harry, whom she called “Richey’s gift.” He, too, was her “child,” sick, needing constant care, and totally ignorant of the manners and mores, the customs and history of Underhill.
By Slanderous Tongues Page 24