By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Dark. How lovely. One does get so tired of golden hair and green eyes. The musicians are tuning their instruments. Will you dance with me?”

  Dance. When was the last time Rhoslyn had seen anyone dance, except the leaping and writhing of agony? Could she dance? She had some memory of Llanelli teaching them some steps … And he had called her “dark” without knowing that she was truly Dark Court. He thought it was an affectation, which, of course, it was; there was no rule that Dark Court Sidhe should be dark of hair and eye. Most remained blond.

  Tremulously, Rhoslyn smiled. She wanted so much to dance and to take pleasure in music and laughter, but she was afraid that if this Sidhe touched her he would know what she was, and she was afraid that her awkwardness, her lack of knowledge of the dance would betray her.

  “I—I was supposed to be waiting until my friends came,” she said hesitantly. “And I am not from Avalon or Logres so I do not know the dances of these hames.”

  The Sidhe smiled at her. “Listen to the music,” he said. “They are playing for the mortal galliard.”

  “Oh, I know that!” Rhoslyn exclaimed, and put out her hand before she thought.

  She certainly did know the galliard, and most of the other human dances too. Mary loved to dance, and though there were not often many men in her household, the ladies danced together with considerable enjoyment. They even did the wilder reels and voltes, since they were private; no one from the Court would see them to criticize and speak of impropriety.

  Beyond the pillars there was a huge central open space in which several columns of dancing pairs had formed. At the end of the open area, opposite the doors, was a dais upon which a half dozen musicians sat. How the sweet sounds they made filled the whole room, Rhoslyn had no idea and did not care. She danced down the column with her attendant Sidhe, laughing with delight and hardly suffered a qualm when he handed her off to the male of the next couple to dance up the column again.

  Dancing and keeping up her shields was draining Rhoslyn, but her heart leapt within her and though her legs felt like jelly she reached for a third partner’s hand. They made it as far as the top of the column, when the Sidhe she was dancing with faltered.

  “I am sorry,” he said, drawing her out of the column toward the pillars.

  “No, I thank you,” Rhoslyn sighed. She was shaking all over and her partner propped her against one of the pillars nearest the dancing floor. “I should never have continued when you first became my partner, but as I told the gentle Sidhe who asked me to dance, I have not done so in a great while and I … I could not resist.”

  “I, too.” The Sidhe laughed lightly. “I am not so young as I once was, but when the music catches me, I forget. Shall I bring you something to eat and drink?”

  “No, I thank you. I have not been to one of King Oberon’s balls in a long time and I cannot resist looking over the table he is offering.”

  “Ah, Aidan, there you are!” A lady of ripe and visible charms in a glittering and swirling net of silk and gems came through the pillars toward them. “I should have known,” she said, laughing, “that you would be among the dancers and looked there instead of where you said we should meet.”

  “Oh, Shaliar, I am so sorry, but I could not resist.” He glanced apologetically at Rhoslyn.

  Before he could offer either an invitation to join them, which would have, Rhoslyn was sure, annoyed his lady friend, or make an apology for leaving, she waved a hand at him. “No, go, please. And thank you for the dance. I, too, was supposed to meet friends and was seduced away from our meeting place by the music. I will go back where I should be as soon as my knees stop quaking.”

  He bowed and left with considerable promptness, for which Rhoslyn was grateful because she felt more hollow and weak by the moment. She needed power or she would fall! Then everyone would notice her and see she was Unseleighe because she could not draw power from the Bright ways. Panic seized her for a moment as she realized she would have to drop her shields to draw that power. But if no one was near, perhaps the miasma that betrayed the Unseleighe to the Seleighe would be lost in the immense magic of Oberon’s creation.

  She slipped around the pillar until she would be hidden from the dancing floor, dismissed her shields and, as her vision dimmed, desperately opened herself to the energy that filled the Bright ways. Her teeth were set hard to restrain any cry of pain, her body tensed to resist the agony and burning she had always been told would come if she tried to draw the power of the Seleighe Sidhe.

  There was no pain, no heat of burning. Only a gentle warmth filled her. Her vision cleared, her trembling stopped, but she clutched at the deep carvings on the pillar with a grip that, had her nails not been rendered useless by Oberon’s magic, would have scored the stone. Lies. All lies. Everything she had been told all her life was lies. She could live in the Bright Court and draw on the energy of love and laughter.

  Roslyn leaned on the pillar, weak and trembling again because she was torn among a mingling of rage, joy, and relief. Her hand went up to touch the lindys buried in the shining folds of her gown. She must tell Pasgen. She must explain to him that she could use the power of the Bright ways, that the tale it would destroy the Unseleighe was a lie.

  Then she remembered that one of the Dark Sidhe Vidal had sent to spy on some doing of the Bright Court had stayed too long, had been detected, and had drawn Bright power in his need to escape. He had been burned, had been screaming in agony until the Healers carried him away. Roslyn thought back but she could not remember seeing him again.

  Was it only she who could live Bright or Dark? Why? Oh. Perhaps because she had been born Seleighe. Her eyes narrowed and she stared across the rows of pillars not seeing the elaborate carving. She had had to be trained to use the Dark power she remembered. Yes. She had heard tales of what an unpleasant child she had been, crying and crying, always hungry for power that she would not take.

  But Pasgen had more easily accepted the Dark power of pain and misery. Perhaps he would not now be able to draw from the Bright ways. Could she— The thought was broken by the sound of voices, one she recognized readily. Elizabeth. Aleneil and Denoriel had brought Elizabeth to Oberon’s ball. For a moment Rhoslyn could not decide whether to step out and greet the party or flee … and then it was too late.

  “Rhoslyn!” Elizabeth cried. “Are you enjoying the ball? We were on our way to the refreshment tables, but then I saw the pillars. Are they not wonderful? There must be hundreds, and I swear that each one is different.”

  “I have not seen two the same,” Rhoslyn agreed, smiling at Elizabeth but taking a quick glance at the large party with her.

  Aleneil was smiling a welcome. Denoriel—Rhoslyn almost had not recognized him, looking so young; she was puzzled at the illusion for a moment because Denoriel had never seemed to her to be vain. Then she saw the way Elizabeth clung to his arm. Had Mary feared the wrong influence on her sister? But before she could follow that thought, Harry FitzRoy had come forward and taken her hand.

  “I remember you, lovely lady,” he said. “You came once to Mwynwen’s house to ask about my brother Richey—I guess he was my brother.”

  “He was as close as I could make him,” Rhoslyn said, looking into the brownish eyes, so different from the clear, bright—and too often empty—eyes of the Sidhe. “But he could not really grow up. And I think you have done so.”

  “I’m afraid I have,” Harry said rather wryly, with a glance at Mwynwen. “Do you mind?”

  But Mwynwen did not return the glance. She was looking out into the dancing space, scanning the many Sidhe there.

  Rhoslyn laughed. “Not at all. I am glad and grateful that poor Richey had so much joy in his life. That eased a deep pain, a knowledge of wrong done to him by making him alive and knowing. I had never hoped that he would be loved. I am equally glad and grateful that my purpose was never fulfilled and that you were not captured for the Dark Court. You have grown up into a complete man and a good one, I think.”

&
nbsp; Harry bowed his head briefly. “For the good opinion, I thank you. But I see you have no companion. Will you not come with us to taste what delights Oberon has provided to eat?”

  Rhoslyn looked around at the others in the group. The delicate Sidhe beside Aleneil had a courteous if indifferent smile; Aleneil nodded at her; Mwynwen gave her an absent but not unwelcoming glance; and Denoriel was looking down at Elizabeth who was also smiling and nodding. Harry still held her hand.

  “I do not wish to intrude,” Rhoslyn said still doubtful although she was very eager to join them.

  “It is no intrusion,” Harry said firmly, and drew her hand into the crook of his arm.

  He offered his other arm to Mwynwen, but she patted it kindly and shook her head. “If you have company, Harry, I see an old friend that I would like to greet. I or we will join you later.”

  Elizabeth was surprised. She watched Mwynwen walk away toward the dancers, recalling that only a few years past Mwynwen was so jealous of her Da’s affection that she had hidden him from her. She also remembered all the tales of Sidhe lovers and how they broke the hearts of any mortal unwise enough to yield to them.

  Her Denno? She raised her eyes to his. He was not looking at her and his long lashes half hid his eyes. Uncertain now, she could not read them, but the hand he laid over hers on his arm was possessive, comforting. Only Mwynwen had also been possessive of her Da, and now …

  She saw that Denno was watching her Da, and she saw the faint frown, the downturn of the lips that meant concern. Denno’s love for Harry had not changed or lessened in twenty years. Surely that was constancy enough. She tightened her grip on his arm, and he smiled down at her as they walked around the rows of pillars to another open area.

  This area was smaller than the dancing floor and was taken up with tables arranged in the shape of a great C, all draped in spotless white cloths. That was as it should be and no more or less than what was proper for any great man’s entertainment. However, instead of silver all the dishes were gold. Elizabeth knew it probably did not matter to Oberon whether he made silver dishes or gold, but she could not help wrinkling her nose at the ostentation.

  “And what do you disapprove of now, my dear lady?” Denno asked, chuckling.

  “Do you not think that gold dishes are a bit more than is necessary to state Oberon’s power?” she asked.

  Denno laughed aloud. “But, my sweet, Oberon is not trying to impress his courtiers as a mortal king might. True, none of us—not even a whole group acting together—could create this palace and its gardens, but any one of us could create a gold service of dishes. They are gold, love, because iron is deadly poison to the Sidhe, but silver is as deadly a poison to many of the other creatures Underhill. Gold is harmless to all.”

  “Oh.” Elizabeth blushed. “I suppose I should know more before I judge anything.” But she noticed that Denno was looking at Harry again, and she whispered. “Do you think Mwynwen has hurt my Da?”

  He glanced down at her, a false smile beginning to bend his lips, but they lost their curve as he took in her expression. Without speaking, he steered her to a table and put out his hand. An empty platter, clear glass, appeared in it. Denno began to fork various tidbits, none of which Elizabeth could name, onto the dish. When it was modestly filled, he handed it to her and another platter appeared in his hand.

  “We will talk about it later,” he said, frowning now. “You may understand better than I. Enjoy the food now, love.”

  “I am sort of afraid of it,” Elizabeth confessed. “I do not recognize anything.”

  A soft laugh to her left drew her head to Ilar, who was standing beside her with Aleneil—who had a well-filled plate in her hand and was just gathering in a three-tined fork. Elizabeth watched with interest as she used it to stab what looked like a tiny yellow bird. It did seem that the three prongs held the food more firmly than two.

  “You won’t find anything unpleasant,” Ilar assured her as he filled his own plate. “The fanciful shapes are only that. What Aleneil has taken is only a cooked egg molded into the shape of a bird.”

  “And this?” Elizabeth asked, pointing the fork that Denoriel had just put into her hand at something white wrapped in a brownish shell.

  “I would say some kind of shell fish in a rind of bacon.” Ilar replied. “It is very tasty if that is what it is and if it is, it is something that His Majesty has stolen from our mortal cooks.”

  “You actually have your food cooked?” Elizabeth asked, the morsel she had speared suspended just in front of her mouth. “Denno’s just appears by magic.”

  Ilar laughed again. “And it is always the same dull dishes each time, is it not?”

  “Well, not dull to me,” Elizabeth replied defensively. Whatever she thought of having food appear by magic, she was not going to agree with some outsider who was criticizing her Denno. “It is all very well cooked and tasty.”

  But Ilar only laughed once more and said, “Well cooked, tasty, and the same thing all the time. Well enough for you, who visit Underhill only now and again and so find the dishes to be various, but think of poor me, who would need to eat them each day.”

  Aleneil put her fork into her plate and playfully punched Ilar in the shoulder. “Oh, you sybarite. All you can think of is a variety of pleasures.”

  “And what is wrong with that?” he asked, smiling. “If it makes everyone happy. So, yes, Lady Elizabeth, in Elfhame Cymry we do have our food cooked by our mortals. This way we get a great variety of dishes. All the mortals compete with each other to produce new wonders for us.”

  But Elizabeth did not smile back. “That must be a great deal of work for the poor mortals. And what happens to them if they cannot produce a new wonder for each meal?”

  “Ah.” Ilar set down his plate and patted Elizabeth’s arm gently. “No, no. You must not think us cruel or our mortals overburdened. They enjoy the challenges new creations pose; it keeps them from being bored. Mortals are so easily bored. They are mostly happy, and when they are not, mostly their sorrows are of their own making.” He sighed and picked up the plate again. “I can see that you do not really believe me. Well, I have an answer to that. Let Lady Aleneil bring you to Elfhame Cymry, and we will allow you to wander where you will and speak to any you wish.”

  That reassured Elizabeth so that she smiled and looked up at Denoriel, who smiled back at her. “On another visit,” he said. And then to Ilar, “I am curious to see Elfhame Cymry myself, but this is my lady’s first ball and I think she should enjoy it to the full.”

  Ilar laughed. “I did not mean now.” He reached out and ran a hand caressingly down Aleneil’s ribbon-clad arm. “I think my lady intends to dance until the music ends.”

  “Perhaps not quite that long,” Aleneil said, also laughing and pulling gently on Ilar’s long earlobe.

  It was such a sensuous gesture that Elizabeth immediately glanced at Denno’s ears and then, wondering if he had noticed, she felt warmth and probably color rise up her throat. Unwilling to meet his eyes, she looked away, only to see her Da and Rhoslyn laughing together.

  A little pang of jealousy went through her, because her Da was so interested in a person other than herself, but a broad shoulder nudged her and Denno, grinning in a private kind of way that hinted he had noticed the way she looked at his ears and blushed, told her there were seats and tables where they could eat.

  She smiled up at him. There was an intentness in his eyes that was exciting and comforting all at once. He had not made a jest of her blush and spared her further blushes. She knew she was first with Denno; he had promised she would be first with him all the days of her life—and despite her suspicions and her doubts, Denno had never lied to her. The whole party moved toward the tables.

  From the shadows among the rows of pillars, eyes watched. Chenga’s nails dug into Piteka’s arm. “So, your listening spell did work and I am now sure that the girl will come to Cymry.” She flashed a sidelong glance at him. “Very well, I owe you. Still, it
is I who must ingratiate myself with the Cymry Sidhe, so remember, the greater part of the reward for being rid of her will be mine.”

  “We will bargain again when you are successful,” Piteka hissed softly. Then he laughed. “If you are there to bargain. She has her own defenses, that harmless-looking mortal. Do not forget the mage she sent into the void, crushed like an eggshell.”

  Chenga did remember. She swallowed and her gaze shifted to Denoriel and then to Aleneil. “They will all be going to Cymry and they are likely to be all together. I wonder if some domestic disaster—the mortals actually cook and serve; could there be an explosion? a fire?—could take them all at once? If the Sidhe died with the mortal, would that not be less suspicious?”

  Piteka’s eyes brightened. “If you could arrange that, I think the reward offered will be more than enough to share between us.”

  “Then you should be ready to accept what I am willing to yield. It is I who will need to coddle the mortals and see how I can arrange the accident. It will not be a moment’s work, and remember, too, that I will be tormented by not sucking dry those pampered pets.”

  “Perhaps you could make away with one or two here and there,” Piteka suggested, not meeting her eyes.

  “And be discovered and cast out. No, I thank you.”

  “The last thing I want is for you to be discovered.” The lie sounded convincing, until he said, “If you are unmasked, no other Dark Sidhe will be able to settle among them and try again.”

  “Which is just what you would like,” Chenga snarled. “No doubt you have another plan. Forget it. I warn you that if you foul my arrangement or betray me in some way, I will make it very clear to Prince Vidal that you assisted the escape of those he wishes to be victims. It was the prince who urged me to go to Cymry.”

  Piteka smiled, his pointed teeth shining in the shadows. In fact he did have another plan, but it had nothing to do with Elizabeth. Oberon had forbidden meddling with Elizabeth and Piteka was not going to get caught in that trap. Vidal would lay the blame on whoever harmed her and come away clear while Oberon—internally Piteka shuddered thinking of what Oberon was capable. No, his plan had nothing to do with that forbidden fruit.