By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  Aleneil snorted. “Well, you look wonderful, so I suppose all that fighting did you good, but Denoriel, ridding Alhambra and El Dorado of the evil that was set into them is not your purpose. You know what the FarSeers have Seen. You are tied to Elizabeth and to her rule.”

  “Is something wrong with Elizabeth?”

  He was half out of his chair and Aleneil waved him down. “Except for growing more and more impatient over your absence, one would think there is nothing wrong …” Then her voice faltered and she wrung her hands. “But there is! I have no clear Vision, I have seen and heard nothing real, but I feel something bad is coming, and it is all to do with Thomas Seymour.”

  Denoriel frowned blackly over the name. “He has got the queen, I suppose. Poor woman. She deserves better.”

  Aleneil sighed with agreement. “Yes, but you could not convince her of that and would not have been able to do so even if there had been as much difficulty over the marriage as Seymour expected.”

  “Marriage?” Denoriel repeated, frowning even more angrily. “I thought after the first flush of infatuation she could be shown what he truly was. The queen planned on a wait of two years, a full year of mourning and another year to show her great respect—”

  “Maybe her head planned on a wait of two years,” Aleneil interrupted with a wry twist to her lips, “but her nether parts decided that two months was more than long enough.”

  She went on to tell him about the clandestine courtship and the effect it had on Elizabeth.

  Denoriel sort of drew back in his chair and said, “Impossible. Ridiculous. Elizabeth is only a little girl!”

  “Denoriel, she is not a little girl. She is a mortal of near fifteen years of age—a mortal and ripening fast. She has a fine bosom and nice broad hips, and she fair panted when she watched Seymour kiss Catherine’s throat and ears out in the garden.”

  Denoriel flushed. “But you said they married. They must have a more private place for their caresses now.”

  “Oh yes,” Aleneil’s lips twisted, “Queen Catherine and Seymour were married sometime about the end of April, but they feared that his brother, who is now Protector, would interfere, so they still met secretly. Only after the wedding, Seymour came in the early morning and they kissed and fondled all the way into the entry of the house nearest her bedchamber with all the servants and half the ladies in waiting goggling out of their windows.” She hesitated and then said, “And I will tell you plain, Denoriel, that I do not like the way Elizabeth looks at Seymour.”

  “What the devil do you mean?” Denoriel said, his skin darkening further. “Surely now that Seymour and the queen are married she looks at him no longer.”

  “Yes she does.” Aleneil’s lips thinned with distaste. “She is only fourteen years old. Her body is ripe and it is waking to urges she hardly understands. But those urges must not be connected to Seymour!”

  Denoriel had looked away. Aleneil could see that his jaw was set hard.

  “The worst of the trouble,” she continued, “is that he looks back! Oh, not only at Elizabeth. At every woman in the place. And Catherine thinks his flirting is charming. But the others do not matter. Denoriel, Elizabeth must be given something else to look at.”

  “No!” The objection burst out of Denoriel with the force of violent jealousy. He swallowed hard, started to compel himself to agree, and then, relieved, shook his head. “No,” he repeated more calmly. “Elizabeth must look at no one, must show no favor to any man. She is forbidden to marry except with the Council’s approval. There is the shadow of her mother’s execution for adultery over her. One slip and she will be named a whore and removed from the succession.”

  “I am so glad you see that, and I think Elizabeth sees it too. But she wants what Catherine has, what Catherine’s foolish desire has been holding under her nose for weeks. Her young body is driving her, that and the knowledge that she might, for political reasons, be forced into marriage with a graybeard or a drooling idiot. She wants to know what Catherine feels, to taste desire. She wants to believe that a kiss or two in a corner would do no harm.”

  Denoriel stiffened and finally said. “No again. What if she were caught? No, you must tell her—”

  “Idiot!” Aleneil interrupted sharply. “I have been telling her! What do you think has saved her so far. But I cannot hold her much longer. She needs a lover.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” Suddenly Aleneil smiled. “What if she could never be caught? What if the lover could disappear? And what if there could be no danger at all of her getting with child?”

  “Aleneil, what are you saying? She is still a child herself.”

  “The legal age for marriage set by the Church is twelve for females. Plenty of girls have borne children at fourteen, so do not talk like a fool. You know Elizabeth’s will. She knows she cannot marry, but if she makes up her mind to taste the sweetness of love …”

  “No.”

  “Oh, stop saying ‘no’ as if what you say can have any effect. You must do something.”

  Denoriel squared his shoulders. “To that I agree. I will talk to her. I will explain to her—”

  “Dannae forfend!” Aleneil exclaimed, with an expression of horror. “You fool! When you next see her, you will tell her that she has ripened into a woman, in your eyes a beautiful woman. You will find a private place while I delay her maidens, and you will kiss her!”

  Color again rose in Denoriel’s cheeks, the pupils of his eyes widened, then shrank again, and his lips, a little fuller than usual, parted to take a deeper breath. A moment later, he stiffened and shook his head violently.

  “Do not bother to say ‘no’ again,” Aleneil snapped. “Who else can disappear so that Elizabeth can never be found with a lover? Who else has been Elizabeth’s friend for so many years that no one really sees him anymore? Who else has the white hair of the aged and infirm, and cannot, no matter how passionate their embraces, make Elizabeth pregnant?”

  Denoriel sat looking at his sister as if she had hit him on the back of the head with a board. “Me?” his voice squeaked.

  “Unless you are willing to suggest another Sidhe to fill the role, and I—”

  “No.” That time it was Denoriel who interrupted and quite forcefully. “Another Sidhe might become bored and leave her. She would be hurt.”

  “Hurt? Mere mortal heartache? That would be the least of our worries. You know Elizabeth. She could turn vindictive against all Sidhe, and if she comes to rule, as we all hope she will, she could close the mortal world, at least of England and Wales, to us.”

  “That’s my Elizabeth.” Denoriel sighed.

  “So it must be you who courts her and loves her. Only you will have the care of her that she will need. Only you can be trusted with her.”

  For one moment an expression of avid desire made Denoriel’s eyes glitter and his lips fill. In the next moment the light in his eyes died and he shrugged. “For the reasons you gave, it might seem so, but she will never have me. You have given all the reasons for that, too. She regards me as an old uncle, to be teased, to do her favors, to amuse her.”

  There was such pain in his voice that Aleneil reached out and took his hand. “I don’t think so,” she said and eased her voice into softness. “Did you not hear her say ‘my Denno’ to Oberon himself? Did you not hear her say if you were not her Denno that she would close the mortal world to Sidhe?”

  “But that could have been a child’s demand for a favorite toy. Dannae knows, Elizabeth is willful.”

  Aleneil smiled. So, there was desire on Denoriel’s part as well. All the better. “Oh, no. Elizabeth knows and respects, even fears, authority. Oberon exudes authority. He is king and none can mistake that. Nonetheless, Elizabeth defied him—for you. She would not have gone so far for an old friend or an old uncle. Not even, I think, for her Da now that she is sure he is alive and well. But for the love of her life?”

  When Aleneil mentioned Da, which was what Elizabeth called Harry FitzRoy, Den
oriel’s memory suddenly brought up one of the many quarrels he had had with her. She had been demanding that he bring Harry to the mortal world to visit her, saying she needed to be sure it was Harry and not some simulacrum or some Sidhe beglamoured to look like Harry. She had asked passionately whether she was never to touch her Da’s hand or feel him hug her.

  Denoriel had then pulled her closer and asked if his hugs would not do. To his pained surprise, she had drawn away from him. When, shocked, he asked if she did not like him, she had assured him that she liked him, liked him very much, but not that way. He remembered now that, without bothering to try to understand what she meant, he had been delighted her affection for him was far different from her affection for her half brother.

  “I do not know,” he said uncertainly. “What if she is disgusted by my attempt on her or frightened by it? What if I am no longer welcome to her?”

  Aleneil shook her head. “Are you planning to leap on her and commit rape? She would have time enough to warn you away if she does not desire you in such a way that your friendship would not be damaged. But surely after all these years you know how to approach Elizabeth.” Now she laughed, and looked at him sideways. “Have you never wooed a lady?”

  Despite feeling he would be torn apart by the maelstrom of emotions in him—a hot and eager desire, an icy terror that the desire might be rejected, a sick trembling of doubt over desiring a child—Denoriel could not help grinning at his sister’s question.

  “Actually, no,” he said. “Mostly they woo me.”

  For some time after Pasgen left his reception room, Vidal simply sat, breathing and drawing in power to restore what Pasgen had drained from him. His first thought, when thought was possible, was gratitude for the quarrel with Aurilia that had left him alone when Pasgen arrived. The last thing he needed was a witness to—

  His thoughts checked. What had Pasgen done? By a fierce exertion of his will, Vidal did not shudder. A Gate. A Gate right into the palace itself, right outside his very door so that he had no warning that Pasgen was coming. He knew Pasgen was an expert with Gates, but not that he was so powerful he could override the warding on Caer Mordwyn. That, Vidal told himself, was something he must not forget; he would need warding of a different kind, warding that would disrupt a Gate, anyone’s Gate, and send the traveler into the void.

  His tense pose eased slightly. Surely if he had the warning he had expected to get, he would have been able to deal with that young upstart. But Vidal’s mind was clearing more and more and lying to himself was less easy. He thought of the shields against which his worst attacks shattered and his hand formed a tight fist. He should have expected that. He knew Pasgen was expert with shields, so why had he been so surprised when the shields held against him?

  Vidal’s eyes closed and foul words trickled in a steady stream from his lips. He was surprised because the last times Pasgen and Rhoslyn had attended court, some of Vidal’s teasing little torments had got through Pasgen’s shield. The obscenities came quicker, louder, as he realized that either the shields had been deliberately imperfect or Pasgen and Rhoslyn had only been pretending to be hurt.

  Rhoslyn, she was nothing. He would … The obscenities died on his lips. And then the memory he had tried to avoid came, wrenching his pride, tearing his confidence, generating … terror. He would do nothing because Pasgen had said that if Rhoslyn were hurt or even frightened, he would return, drain Vidal to true death, and turn Caer Mordwyn to dust.

  How? How had Pasgen drawn power out of him? Vidal knew that healers and others could infuse power into another, but draw it out? His brow furrowed. Surely he had heard rumors—no, ridiculous. Those were only tales of horror … or were they? Had he not felt his shields ravel away and then a growing weakness and then—he shuddered again—that feeling as if the blood was being drawn out of his body.

  The terror slowly faded away. Doubtless Pasgen, who was something of a scholar, had found evidence proving that tales of power-sucking creatures were true. So he had found them or found records that explained what they were and how they worked. What Pasgen had found, Vidal was sure he could find also. There were a few among the Dark Sidhe who would enjoy seeking such information.

  Vidal jerked upright in his chair, much of his energy restored by the shock of fear that had hit him when his thinking process caught up with his plans. There was no Dark Sidhe, no living or nonliving creature, that he would trust with such a seeking. It was danger and threat enough that Pasgen knew how to draw power; he might as well cut his own throat with a dull knife as to allow anyone else to know it could be done.

  But Pasgen already knew and had nearly killed him. He must find a counter to Pasgen’s magic, which meant he must himself seek the records from which Pasgen had learned how to manage power. A low growl like that of a frustrated animal worked its way out of Vidal’s chest. He had no time for tearing libraries from healers and mages and struggling through obscure texts in search of that secret.

  Obtaining the information from Pasgen himself was out of the question. While Pasgen could drain power from an enemy, Vidal was no longer fool enough to confront him. Could he find and steal Pasgen’s spell? Vidal growled again.

  In all the years he had sought—mostly idly, it was true, but sometimes intensely—he had never found Pasgen’s home domain. He could institute another search … but if Pasgen noticed … Vidal did not finish that thought. What he told himself was that it was unlikely Pasgen would keep his deepest secrets in his own home in any case. So finding the draining spell would mean a minute study of his own library and then of others … No, now was not the time. He had other more immediate problems.

  His FarSeers had warned him that a new Vision was intruding on those of Mary and Elizabeth, which had been stable for so long. Yet another female had been offered the crown, one he did not recognize and now, of course, he could not get Rhoslyn and Pasgen to identify her. But more significant than that was that the image of Edward as king was growing soft and wavering and sometimes failed to appear.

  If Edward’s reign was not going to be long, Vidal thought, he would need to be sure Elizabeth was removed from the succession soon. Otherwise she could be presented as a rival to Mary by those who wished to keep the reformed religion. Since the Vision of Elizabeth’s reign, curse her, remained strong and constant, Vidal had no intention of taking the chance that Elizabeth and her party would win.

  Even before seeking the secret of drawing power—as long as he avoided Pasgen he did not need that ability or the means to counter it—he must arrange to reach Thomas Seymour and bespell him to believe that if he made Elizabeth his whore, he would eventually rule at her side.

  Vidal had intended to get Pasgen to deal with Seymour. Pasgen had a knack with amulets as well as with Gates. But he was not sure he would trust Pasgen, even if there were some way to control him. Vidal paused on the thought. Something was tickling the back of his mind. As he regained strength and his mind cleared, Vidal had become aware that his memory was not perfect.

  Rhoslyn … No, Vidal dismissed the idea of using her as a hostage. Pasgen would be keeping a watch on his sister. He would know at once if anyone tried to seize her. Before he could control the movement, Vidal shivered. But the odd sensation at the back of his mind—a feeling he hated because it meant he had forgotten something large and important—kept nagging at him.

  He would not think about it and it would come back to him. Meanwhile, Vidal decided, he would see if he could pacify Aurilia; she was good with amulets too. He snapped his fingers for an imp, gave it a mental picture of one of the mortals seized in a raid in Scotland, and bade it bring the man. While he waited, Vidal looked around the chamber to be sure that there was no sign of the conflict with Pasgen. Much of his normal power had been restored and he gestured away the few scorch marks on walls and drapes.

  He looked over the blank-faced but large-thewed young man when he arrived led by a newt servant and nodded. Aurilia would appreciate this kind of unspoken apology. And
then, looking into the empty eyes, he remembered.

  Pasgen and Rhoslyn had a mother! Although he had originally been willing to leave the babies with her—he had suspected she was right and that they would not survive in the care of the Dark Sidhe—she had later annoyed him by keeping her children from fully embracing the Unseleighe way. Such deception and rebellion required punishment. Vidal smiled.

  First he had used her, enjoying to the full her hatred of him and her self-hatred when she could not resist him. Then, to fully enslave her, he had made her—he remembered now, Llanelli was her name—an eater of oleander. He snorted his contempt, remembering more clearly. Once beautiful, she had become a pallid nothing. Her wailing and pleading and even her attempts at seduction to get the drug had become annoying.

  But Pasgen and Rhoslyn still felt bound to her even in that state. Then they were still weak in power and learning; they had pleaded with him to let them tend to her. Vidal paused momentarily to savor the memory of Pasgen begging a favor. He shook his head. What fools they were. Did they not know better than to beg?

  If they wanted Llanelli, they should have seized her. So what if the spells with which he had bound her, because of her silly attempts to escape, would cause her excruciating pain? It would have been her pain, not theirs; they could have enjoyed it.

  Begging! Fools! To teach them just how powerless they were against him, he refused. But he had not wanted the nuisance of any attempt to abduct her nor the nuisance of having her in Caer Mordwyn, so instead of giving Llanelli to them, he had let them know he had cast her out. He had had her dropped in one of the great markets, expecting she would kill herself or turn to whoring to get more of the drug—enough perhaps to send her to Dreaming. If they found her, what a revolting thing she would have been.