By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  Pasgen grimaced. “As I was when I felt you coming. Watching, are you? What have you found here?”

  Her face took on a thoughtful expression. “Mostly a feeling …”

  “A calling? A drawing? I will confess the place draws me. You should have been warned against that. I told Denoriel, I am sure.”

  But as he spoke, Pasgen found himself looking out into the mist rather than at Gaenor’s face. Was that a flash of gold near a ruddy spot? He almost stepped off the Gate platform, but Gaenor had a grip on his arm and drew him back.

  “Did you see that?” he asked urgently. “Is that red hair near golden? Have you ever seen the … the … I do not know what to call them.”

  “The mist’s creatures?” Gaenor’s voice was calm. “Not clearly.”

  “Do you not think it … strange? That we can talk about the makings of a mist?” He uttered an uneasy laugh.

  She smiled slightly. “When you are as old as I, you will find very few things strange. I come here often and watch. I send no thoughts out into the mist … ah … you did and there is an answer …”

  It did seem that the mist was thicker and more curling, that it was coming closer to the Gate platform, that behind the roiling mass were two more substantial clots, one topped in red, the other in gold.

  Pasgen shuddered. No mist in any Unformed domain had ever invaded a Gate as far as Pasgen knew, but here— Pasgen took a deep breath, racking his brains for some way to set up a force field that would hold back the mist. But the Gate might disrupt any field he tried or, worse yet, the field might damage the Gate, stranding them—

  “Rest!” The voice was command, but honeyed with good will. The mist billowed uncertainly. “You have done enough. No aid is called for here. Rest.”

  Only, the hand that gripped Pasgen’s arm was trembling, the desperation in the hold in total variance to the calm of the voice and the blankness of the mind.

  “Rest,” Gaenor repeated. “I am called elsewhere but I will come again soon to be with you.”

  On the last word, they dropped into blackness and emerged in the unadorned Gate on the peaceful, perfect lawn of Elfhame Elder-Elf. Gaenor stepped off the platform, her hand still tight on Pasgen’s arm and turned her nearly colorless eyes on him.

  “The mist knows you. It was coming to you.”

  Wordless, Pasgen nodded.

  “You must not go to that Unformed land again.”

  “It was not threatening me,” Pasgen said. “I felt no anger, no evil at all.”

  “That is not to the point,” Gaenor snapped. “If I felt any evil in it, I would have gone to Oberon. But innocence and ignorance can cause evil. I have never known any mist to approach a Gate and I made in many Unformed lands. The mists are always drawn back at least enough for someone to step off the platform. Do you know what would happen if the mist entered a Gate?”

  “No,” Pasgen admitted. “Do you?”

  “It is not something I want to find out.” Gaenor’s mouth twisted wryly. “What if it were possible for the mist to pour through a Gate? What would happen to the domains we have built if they were covered in chaos mist?”

  “I have no idea,” Pasgen said, his eyes brightening with speculation. “But I could—”

  “No you could not!” Gaenor exclaimed. “Not with any of the mist from that land.” She took him by one of his long ears and shook him. “Child, your mind is too strong. You are not a maker, but you … you spew thoughts of such power that it is possible they become almost like made things.”

  “Gentle Mother,” Pasgen breathed, in a pacifying tone he had rarely used with anyone. “I was studying that Unformed land because it had been used by many makers and because I had heard that a mortal child, Talented but mortal, had ‘asked’ the mist to make a lion and the creature was made. That was before I ever came there, I am sure of that. Surely it is not I that has caused this thing!”

  Gaenor released his ear and shook her head, frowning and uneasy. “If it made the lion for this mortal child, it was already able to take from the child’s mind what ‘lion’ was. But you said there were other creatures that no one asked for and you had been ‘studying’ the mist. Did it learn from you to think? to desire?”

  “I do not know,” Pasgen replied, slowly, and after much thought. “I have been studying Chaos Lands for … for a long time. I think I had better go to all those I remember, all those I have been in more than once, and see if they are different.”

  The ancient elf nodded. “A good thought, child. I hope you find nothing amiss, but whatever draws you, you must resist. You must not go to that land again.”

  Her alarm actually truncated his own longing to return. “No. No, I will not.”

  The anxiety Gaenor had caused Pasgen to feel about his investigations had the good effect of almost eliminating the pull on him of that strange place. From Elfhame Elder-Elf he Gated home, not directly, of course, but eventually. He ate and rested and then got out his notes about the many Chaos Lands he had visited and also the empty and sometimes partly formed domains. The empty places, finished or unfinished, always made him sad because they told so clear a tale of the diminishing population of Sidhe.

  Then he set out to retrace the steps he had taken when he began to study the mist in the Chaos lands. He went first to those places he visited most frequently, where he could somehow draw power from the mist into himself. To his relief he found nothing at all strange in those places. They were Unformed lands, nothing more. He stood quietly in each place, open and waiting, but he felt only the formless, undirected, silent hum of power and the usual, faint movement of the mist, which was only strange because there was no breeze to move it.

  Somewhat calmed by the lack of any feeling in the places from which he had drawn power most often, he then traveled systematically to each Unformed land he had ever touched. In two he did find something like the almost self-willed mist he had captured to study, and he formed force fields around the new wisps and removed them to his workroom lest they grow and contaminate the whole domain. Then he returned to those places and sought for more or for any sensation of loss.

  Pasgen was very thorough in his examinations. He did not hurry. He was essentially unaware of the passing of mortal days, then weeks. Twice he went to Elfhame Elder-Elf and spoke to Gaenor, but she had nothing to tell him. She thought she might have glimpsed the two mist-made constructs, but if she had, it was no more than a glimpse. They did not approach her, and neither did the mist create anything new for her.

  As his anxiety ebbed and he became even more aware of the shades of difference in the mists of each Unformed land, Pasgen shook off the feeling of being drawn. He was deep in his attempt to discover why there were differences in the mists when the lindys he never failed to wear convulsed and then leapt madly against the restraint that held it to his clothing.

  Cursing himself for nearly forgetting his sister, Pasgen ran for the Gate and actually entered the pattern of the empty house rather than going first to one of the markets.

  There was no guard on the Gate. Pasgen did not look for the remains of the construct that was set to guard it. He knew it had to have been destroyed. He ran full tilt for the house itself, pulling up shields and forming levin bolts as he ran. At least the lindys was quieting and still telling him that Rhoslyn was here at the empty house.

  He stopped in the doorway, staring, appalled, the power of the levin bolts trickling away. He was too late to fight. The house was silent; there was no battle now, but the entire entrance hall was a shambles. Pieces of goblin lay leaking on the floor and splatters and gobbets of their green-gray flesh and blood stained the walls.

  An ogre’s arm twitched near the door to the parlor; the head was not far away. But under the huge torso was the crushed body of one of Rhoslyn’s girls, her head twisted right around to stare over her back.

  “Mother,” Pasgen breathed and rushed toward the back of the house and the passage to Llanelli’s wing.

  Once inside the passa
ge, he heard a sound, a woman sobbing, but he could go no faster. He kept slipping and tripping over the goblin parts that covered the floor. There must have been a hundred of them, he thought, as he staggered through the open door to the reception room of the healer’s suite.

  There, unhurt, Rhoslyn sat amid the carnage, holding a blue ribbon in her hand and weeping.

  “Mother?” Pasgen cried. “Where is mother?”

  “Safe,” Rhoslyn sighed. “At the Elves’ Faire. We had a meal together and then I came here to leave a message for you and saw …” She shivered. “I sent an air spirit to tell her to stay there.” She held up the ribbon and tears ran down her face. “It was all I could find. They tore my girl to pieces.”

  “Not before she tore a lot of them to pieces,” Pasgen said. Then, very quietly, he asked, “Who did this? Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Roslyn took the hand Pasgen held out to her and got to her feet. “But it must be Vidal. No one else could have sent such an army of goblins, and there were ogres too.”

  “But Vidal is in Scotland,” Pasgen said. “Dealing with the Scots is like herding cats. No sooner do they agree to something than a new cause of insult arises among those who were allies, and all the parties change sides again. He is so busy making sure that no party grows strong enough to force an agreement with the English, that he left mortal affairs in England in Aurilia’s hands and she—”

  “That was over two months ago, Pasgen,” Rhoslyn pointed out.

  “Oh.”

  He drew Rhoslyn closer and guided her to the front door entrance to the separate wing. He had to force the outer door open. Another ogre lay there, its head hanging sideways by a flap of skin in the back, its bowels laid open so that the guts hung out. Two of Pasgen’s hulking guards also lay destroyed; one with a crushed head, the other with its chest caved in, the ogre’s foot still embedded.

  Rhoslyn sighed. “I will have to ask leave of Lady Mary again. It will take me weeks to make more guards and girls.”

  Pasgen walked out into the garden, the force fields that sealed off the path opening for him and Rhoslyn. When the house was hidden by the shrubbery, he “called” a bench and sat down beside her.

  “How did you happen to come here today?” he asked.

  “I always have dinner with Mother on Tuesday,” Rhoslyn replied, looking surprised. “Soon as Mary’s household is asleep, I lock my chamber door and Gate to the Elves’ Faire to meet Mother. Usually I just Gate back to Essex, but Mother was beginning to worry about you because she has not seen you in so long, so I came here to leave a message for you.”

  “You always have dinner with Mother on Tuesday,” Pasgen repeated. “So anyone could have known—”

  He stopped as both of them became aware that the Gate had been activated. Both stood up. The Gate was used again. Together they rushed out into the path, which they found clogged with Vidal’s creatures, giggling and growling. There were only a few goblins but there were at least a dozen bwgwl, two black annises, four trolls, a mass of boggles, a flurry of hags, and a host of trows.

  At the head of the clot of evil was a Dark Sidhe, who glanced at the house and giggled to himself. Rhoslyn recognized him as the nearly disminded oleander eater, who was often left to “greet” and infuriate those who came to speak to Vidal.

  “With Prince Vidal’s compliments,” the Sidhe said when he noticed them. “The prince finds that you do not respond to his summons left with servants at this house.” He giggled again. “He told me to make sure you would obey any future order he sent.” He pouted. “Your guards were too effective so we did not finish. Now stand aside.”

  He gestured at the horde behind him and they began to run, hop, glide, slither forward. Roslyn gasped and raised her hands, blue fire limning her fingers. Before she could act, Pasgen had drawn power from everywhere. The force fields that shielded the garden collapsed, Rhoslyn felt cold and empty and the light died from her hands, the horde shrieked and wailed as their life-force was drawn. Pasgen pointed.

  “Stay,” he said. The whole group froze in place. And then he said, “Burn!”

  That was when the screaming started.

  Vidal Dhu spat an ugly oath when Pasgen and Rhoslyn appeared on the path in front of the creatures he had allowed that drugged fool to take with him. Vidal had not expected anyone to be in the house but the helpless constructs that took and relayed messages.

  He had sent two ogres and an army of goblins to kill as cruelly as they could all the servants except one, who would be left with his message, and then to ruin the garden, tear down what they could of the house, and cover what they could not destroy with urine and feces. He had not expected that there would be fighting constructs in the house. Rhoslyn’s girls and guards had cost him almost a quarter of his court. That had added fuel to the rage that unexpected events had set afire.

  When Vidal had returned to England he had been in high good humor, having convinced both Scottish parties to agree on one thing. Both now had the same absolute determination to “save” their princess from the degradation of being married to the English king. He was even mildly pleased by Aurilia’s plan to have Denoriel and Aleneil killed. He doubted that such a plan would be successful, but it could in no way be traced back to Underhill. And if it should work, that cursed girl Elizabeth would be left bereft and unprotected, easy prey to a most unsuitable marriage with Thomas Seymour.

  Such a marriage would call for a public and immediate removal of Elizabeth from the line of succession. The Protector—he had heard in Scotland about Somerset being elevated from head of the Council to Protector—was not likely to permit his brother to have so much influence on the government or to be in line to rule as a queen’s consort.

  A silly girl would not think of that. She would be easy prey, easily convinced that she needed Seymour when she had lost those so dear to her. She would be desperate for love, for comfort—and Thomas Seymour would provide it.

  Grinning, Vidal explained … and his whole beautiful plan collapsed around him because Aurilia laughed and told him Seymour was already married, and not to one easy to put aside. His wife was the dowager queen, Catherine.

  He slapped her face and called her a liar. All trace of languid relaxation disappeared as Aurilia shrieked and leapt to her feet, mouth agape to bite, hands extended with elongated nails ready to claw. Vidal launched another blow but she caught it and jumped at him. Her weight, considerably more than one would expect from her seemingly slender body, drove him backward. She caught at him, overbalanced; they fell to the floor snapping and snatching.

  Aurilia’s claws caught in Vidal’s trews and she ripped them open. Her gown had not been much more than a few wisps to start out with and was now barely shreds. Vidal heaved and rolled, bringing Aurilia beneath him. She snapped at his face. He put a hand under her chin and slammed her mouth closed right on her tongue. As she howled, muted by the hand that gagged her, he heaved up and thrust down.

  It should have been impossible for him to impale her, but the violence and pain had the same effect on her as on him. She curved her lower body up toward him, her legs going around his hips; heaving up as he thrust down. Now it was his turn to howl, as he missed his target and was crushed against her pelvic bone. However his next thrust went home.

  Twice. Thrice. Scoring each other with nails and teeth. Sucking, soothed, by the faintly metallic taste of blood. On the fourth thrust Vidal found completion. He ground himself against Aurilia until the last spasm passed and then pushed her aside.

  “You stupid fool,” he snarled, curling around and levering himself to his feet. “You cretin! You brain damaged half-wit, wasting your time trying to kill one of the strongest fighters in the Seleighe domain with a few mortal bullies. Why did you not prevent Seymour from marrying?”

  “Do not call me brain-damaged,” Aurilia howled, virtually springing to her feet. “You are the idiot, the cretin! Did you tell me a word of this? Yes, you said Elizabeth must be disgraced and it would be easier if
Denoriel and Aleneil were dead, but not a word did you say about Seymour.”

  “I did!” Vidal bellowed.

  “You did not!” Aurilia screamed.

  They exchanged the useless accusations several times but their rage was fading and finally, only glaring, not threatening, Vidal asked, “Do you even know where Elizabeth is?”

  “Fool! Fool!” Aurilia snarled over her shoulder as she moved to the table that held her blue potion. “If you had only told me that you meant Seymour for Elizabeth, to be rid of her by disgrace! When I knew Seymour was courting the queen, I paid no more attention to him. Why should I think his marriage to Elizabeth would disgrace her? He was the Protector’s brother! I assumed the Protector would approve his marriage to bring more power into his hands.” Aurilia lifted the glass and swallowed the contents, then shrugged. “She is right there in the palace with them.”

  The last sentence made no sense to Vidal for a moment; then he asked, “Elizabeth is living with Catherine and Seymour?” The voice in which that question was posed was thoughtful and calm, Vidal’s expression interested rather than furious.

  “Yes, she is.” Aurilia had also calmed; she returned the glass to the table without trying to drain the last drops.

  Vidal smiled. “Ahhhh. Perhaps it is just as well that you did not interfere in Seymour’s marriage. Had he married Elizabeth and the disapproval of the Council of that marriage removed her from the succession, well, marriage to someone only slightly unsuitable is not such a dishonor. If there were need, she could be restored to her place as an heir. But if Elizabeth were to take Seymour as a lover … Oh yes, a married man, married no less to her stepmother … If that was discovered …” Vidal’s smile broadened. “No, they could not restore a whore to the succession.”

  He approached Aurilia and lifted her face with a hand under her chin. “I am sorry I grew so angry. I should have thought first. All in all, you have done very well. Now I must obtain an amulet—”