By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  This time Kat was not amused by Thomas’ behavior. She gaped at his naked legs and flapping gown and cried out that it was not decent for a man to visit a maiden’s bedchamber in such disarray. All Thomas’ good humor disappeared; he snapped angrily that he intended no harm, only to please Elizabeth with early morning cheer. In reply to which Kat said that such cheer could ruin a maiden’s reputation and that if he did not promise not to come unclothed to Elizabeth’s chamber again, she would have to beg the queen either to accompany him or to send Elizabeth away.

  He left in a temper, and Elizabeth was quite alarmed. She certainly did not want Kat to trouble Queen Catherine, who was having a very sickly pregnancy. However, she realized she could not take a chance of Thomas’ catching her in a nightdress so she decided to ask Denno to return her to the mortal world fully clothed.

  Denno, of course, asked why. Elizabeth sighed, but it was what she had expected and she had deliberately chosen a time when Da was with them to describe Thomas’ flirtation, thinking Da’s presence would prevent Denno from scolding her. Oddly, it was Da who was most upset and who lectured her on the danger any slur on her reputation would be to the likelihood she would come to the throne.

  Elizabeth said, “Oh, Da, don’t say that. Edward is so young, younger than I, and he is healthy and clever.”

  “Master Grindal was healthy and clever, too, and he is dead,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I do not wish Edward any ill. I will be very happy if he lives a long and fruitful life. Believe me, Bess, my love, I do not wish you to come to the throne. It is a hard and bitter life to rule. But if any accident should befall Edward … Mary is much older than you and she is in poor health. It is your duty to be ready to keep England safe, for a failure in the direct line—such as your disgrace and removal from the succession—will mean civil war.”

  Elizabeth stared at her half brother. Denno looked down at his hands, then squarely at Elizabeth. He did not wish to burden her either with hope or with fear, but he felt she needed to know more. This last year, living in safety with Catherine, she had become less cautious, less suspicious. Or perhaps it was just her age; halflings, as those between the age of childhood and full adulthood were called, were notoriously wild and careless, unable to believe that any ill could befall them.

  “There has always been the possibility that you would rule,” he said. “It is one of the futures in the Visions of the FarSeers.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said, but she did not look distressed at all. Her eyes grew very bright. “Truly? Is there truly a possibility that I will come to the throne?” She drew a breath. “I will be more careful. Thomas is only boisterous and careless, but perhaps I have not discouraged him as much as I should.”

  “And why not?” Harry asked sharply.

  Elizabeth blushed faintly. “I suppose a little because the flirting flattered me, but truly, mostly it is because Catherine becomes distressed if he is too firmly rejected.”

  “I have been careless, too.” Denoriel sighed. “It was so … ah … convenient for you to come in a nightdress, but I see it will not do. You will need to bring some clothing to keep in my lodgings at Llachar Lle and I will make sure you are fully dressed when I bring you back to the mortal world in the morning. If you are already up and at your book, Seymour cannot talk about undone points or have any excuse to touch you.”

  Harry shook his head. “Grace of God, Catherine is your stepmother. Seymour is your stepfather by marriage. And to meddle with you, second in line for the throne, is treason. His behavior could ruin him, too. Why is the man such a fool?”

  Suddenly Denoriel felt much better. He had been seething with rage and, yes, jealousy since Elizabeth had begun her tale of Seymour’s attentions. The blush and admission that she had been flattered twisted his gut. It had taken all his determination to maintain an attitude of indifference. He knew his Elizabeth. To expose his hurt and jealousy would only encourage her to torment him. Now Harry—blessed Harry—had given him a good reason for Elizabeth to avoid Seymour.

  “A very interesting question, Harry,” Denoriel said, frowning. “I hope it is because he is the kind that cannot leave any pretty girl alone. But I fear there may be a darker side to his pursuit.” He turned and smiled at Elizabeth. “Not that you are not worth it, my sweet, but Seymour has always seemed to me a man first devoted to himself.”

  “A monster of selfishness,” Harry said angrily. “Would he chance hurting his breeding wife with playing with her ladies and her stepdaughter otherwise?”

  “Catherine only laughs,” Elizabeth put in, looking rather shamefaced.

  “Who knows what hurt that laughter could conceal,” Harry said, still angry.

  “I am sorry, but I am afraid there is a real reason for his carelessness, which may not be carelessness at all. Do you remember, Harry, that Oberon ordered Vidal not to do or cause any hurt to Elizabeth?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “Vidal fears Oberon too much to violate that order by any physical attack, but do you think he has forgotten how Elizabeth’s reign would benefit the Bright Court and starve the Dark of the power of misery? Vidal is very experienced in manipulating courts and courtiers. Once Catherine brought a man who might be thought attractive to women into her household, do you think Vidal would overlook the chance of removing Elizabeth from the succession by disgrace?”

  Elizabeth’s lips thinned into a scarcely visible line and Denoriel had to bite his own lips to hide a smile. He recalled how her eyes glowed when he mentioned the FarSeers’ Vision of her as queen. Elizabeth would be playing no more games with Sir Thomas Seymour.

  “You think Vidal may have sunk his hooks into Seymour?” Harry said thoughtfully.

  Denoriel shrugged. “If Edward fails, Mary’s reign will be short, I think. Then, if Elizabeth has been removed from the succession … there will be civil war. Elizabeth will have partisans who oppose whoever else is proposed to take the throne. She is the legitimate heir and the people love her. Nothing could give Vidal more pleasure than a civil war in England and that would also provide opportunities for Elizabeth to be killed by her enemies—for which Oberon could not blame Vidal.”

  “Civil war is not to be thought of,” Harry said, mouth and chin set mulishly. Duty to his country had been drilled into Henry FitzRoy, blood and bone. There had been civil war before … most recently, the Wars of the Roses that had been finally ended in exhaustion and compromise with the ascension of his own grandfather, Henry VII, to the throne. Harry would do anything, sacrifice anything, to prevent another such bloodbath.

  But unfortunately, as he well knew, there were others who would do anything to bring such a calamity to pass.

  Thus, on the following mortal Tuesday, Harry went to the Elves’ Faire to find Rhoslyn. Llanelli greeted him warmly. She had seen how Rhoslyn bloomed in his presence and welcomed any diversion for her daughter, who had been deeply depressed by the loss of any hope for acceptance into the Bright Court.

  In an ordinary way, Llanelli would have opposed any relationship between her daughter and a mortal, knowing that a short mortal life would only cause Rhoslyn pain. But Harry was not only marked by Oberon’s protection but was a permanent resident Underhill. Mortal life was greatly extended by living Underhill and Llanelli supposed that like most Sidhe Rhoslyn would grow bored with her mortal lover and abandon him long before his life ended.

  In due course, Rhoslyn arrived, her whole face lighting with her smile at Harry when he proposed that they go to the Inn of Kindly Laughter for dinner. Llanelli agreed and sent them on ahead because, she said, she still had one patient to see. Rhoslyn blushed and said, “Mother!” but Harry extended his arm for her to take and Llanelli waved them away.

  “I must tell you,” Harry said, as soon as they were out of hearing of Llanelli, “that I have an ulterior motive. Not that I would not come without one. I cannot tell you, Rhoslyn, how much pleasure your company gives me, but I know you are kindly disposed toward Elizabeth and there may b
e a threat brewing for her.”

  “Not from Lady Mary,” Rhoslyn said defensively and then, “But she does not love Elizabeth, that is true.”

  “No, not from Lady Mary. I would not ask you to betray Mary in any way. I think you once told me that your brother took on the guise of a mortal sorcerer called Otstargi?”

  Rhoslyn shook her head vigorously. “He has not played the role of Otstargi for many years, and he promised me he would not act against Elizabeth. He is Dark Court, but would not break his word to me.”

  Harry laid his hand over Rhoslyn’s and squeezed it gently, hearing the pain in her voice. “No, I did not mean that your brother was doing anything to hurt Elizabeth. I just wondered whether he would do me a favor and, in the guise of Otstargi, discover whether there were any unpleasant rumors linking Elizabeth and her stepmother’s husband, Sir Thomas Seymour. Seymour has been misbehaving toward her, and she told me and Denno. I want to learn whatever I can about this Seymour.” Harry’s mouth and eyes hardened. “He might have an accident if he is any danger to my little girl.”

  Rhoslyn raised anxious eyes to Harry’s, eyes unshadowed by envy or jealousy because of the words “my little girl.” She had heard a lot of stories about how adorable Elizabeth was as a baby, and she had seen Harry’s behavior to Elizabeth at the ball. Besides it was obvious that Elizabeth wanted Denoriel’s attention, and not Harry’s.

  Or at least, not in that way.

  “Pasgen knows about Seymour. I told him because when Lady Mary learned that Seymour was married, or to be married, to Queen Catherine, she wrote to offer Elizabeth a haven in her household. Elizabeth refused, very politely, but very decidedly. Mary was hurt and said no good could come of Elizabeth living in the household of a well-known lecher.” Rhoslyn bit her lip. “Lady Mary would not start any ill-natured tales about Elizabeth … but she would believe them.”

  Harry sighed. “I feared as much. Even when Elizabeth was a baby, Lady Mary was of two minds about her. Mary loves all children, and she was very kind to Elizabeth after Anne’s execution, but she never forgot for a moment the pain Anne had caused her mother … and Elizabeth was part of that.”

  Rhoslyn nodded. “And Elizabeth is no longer a child. She is a young woman whose manner and appearance scream aloud that she is old King Henry’s daughter. Mary cannot forgive her for that. There is little left in Mary of love or sympathy for Elizabeth.” She nodded again. “I will do what I can. I cannot always reach Pasgen quickly, but I know he has been in Otstargi’s household recently. I will ask him to find out what he can.”

  “I thank you,” Harry said, and raised Rhoslyn’s hand and kissed it. “Elizabeth is the daughter I will never have.”

  As Rhoslyn had suspected, Llanelli did not have another patient but she was very pleased with herself when she saw Rhoslyn and Harry walk off deep in conversation. Rhoslyn would have him bound fast whenever she wanted him, Llanelli thought with satisfaction, then lifted her head to look enquiringly at the brown-haired, rosy-faced maid who had come to her side.

  “Lady,” the maid said, “there is a Sidhe in the outer chamber who begs you to come to his companion, who was torn in a personal battle.”

  Llanelli shook her head. “No. Tell the Sidhe that I do not visit patients. I will wait and do what I can for his companion if he will bring that companion here or to the Goblin Market or the Bazaar of the Bizarre. However, I no longer heal in any place except the three great markets.”

  “I have told him that already,” the maid said. “He said he wishes to explain to you the pitiable condition of his companion and says he is sure you will not be so hard of heart as to refuse him.”

  About to tell the maid to send the insistent Sidhe away, Llanelli realized she had to leave to join Rhoslyn and Harry anyway, and went out to the receiving room. The Sidhe waiting had the usual golden hair and light eyes but was thin to emaciation. He stretched a hand toward her, but Llanelli did not raise her hand to meet his.

  “I will not come with you,” she said. “You waste your time. If your companion is so much injured that he or she cannot be moved, I could not heal him or her anyway. I am a good healer but not a worker of magic. There are other healers also.”

  “You must come. You must. My name is Goeel. Eforian told me how you healed his arm from iron poison. Only you will be able to heal my friend.”

  “That healing was something special. I had a … an instrument that I no longer possess. It was only lent to me.”

  “Come.” Goeel took a step forward. He did not notice Lliwglas stir from against the wall beside the entryway. “I will take you to the lender of the instrument. You can borrow it again …”

  He leapt forward but before he could seize Llanelli’s arm, Lliwglas had her long, sharp, spider-leg fingers around his neck.

  “No!” Llanelli cried. “Do not harm him. I do not want you to be Removed. The market permits no violence.”

  Lliwglas nodded and sidled around so that her body was between the Sidhe and Llanelli. “Go away,” she said quietly. “I will not let you touch her, so you are wasting your time.”

  “Vidal wants you,” the Sidhe spat at Llanelli. “And the more of his time you waste, the worse your fate will be. Come now and he will give you all the oleander you want. He will do you no harm. He only wants you as his guest so that your stubborn, stupid children will obey him as they should.”

  Fear paralyzed Llanelli so completely that she lost her illusion of a red-haired, hazel-eyed, full-bodied woman. The eyes faded to dull, pale green, the hair into wispy mist-white, and the clothing hung on her emaciated frame.

  “Go,” Lliwglas said to the angry Sidhe. “Your master is powerless here. No one can take or touch the lady. The market cares for its own.”

  Without touching Goeel, Lliwglas chivvied him out of Llanelli’s outer chamber, keeping her body between him and any path he wished to take, except the way out of the market. He cursed and spat, but she never touched him or lost her patience, and at last he charged straight at her and struck at her with a knife he had pulled from a hidden place. Lliwglas did not even raise her arms to protect herself … and the Unseleighe Sidhe was Removed. Her pursed lips pulled back, showing the wolflike teeth in a smile of satisfaction. Rhoslyn’s girls were constructs, but not mindless.

  By the time Lliwglas returned to Llanelli’s chambers, Llanelli’s illusion had been restored. She had even colored her cheeks and lips a touch more than usual so that Rhoslyn would not perceive the pallor of her terror. Despite the proof that Rhoslyn’s girl could and would protect her and was clever enough, now that she was warned, to avoid Removal, Llanelli was sliding down into a pit of despair.

  He would have her. She knew it. Despite what Rhoslyn or Pasgen said, Llanelli knew that they could not stand against Vidal. What was she to do? She had hoped by establishing herself in the markets where they could easily visit her, she could convince her children that they could leave the Dark Court for the Bright. But if they discovered that Vidal was pursuing her and why he was pursuing her … and they would learn. Rhoslyn’s girl would tell everything if Rhoslyn asked.

  Smiling cheerfully, and falsely, Llanelli said to Lliwglas, “That was simple. He has learned better. He will not come here again.”

  “No,” Lliwglas agreed stolidly; she knew Llanelli did not like it when she smiled. “He attacked me and was Removed. He will not come again.”

  Llanelli’s heart lifted. Removed. Then he would never report to Vidal. She would have time to think about what to do. She set out for the Inn of Kindly Laughter. Her whole attention was fixed on subjects of conversation that would keep Rhoslyn too occupied to ask Lliwglas questions. She did not see Piteka, bent over a clever device for concealing a dagger, glance swiftly once in her direction.

  Pasgen was at first even more difficult than usual to find and then was simply at home, just sitting in his black and white parlor, doing nothing. He was also willing—Rhoslyn would have said eager, except that it was so unlike his usual attitude towar
d mortal affairs—to investigate Sir Thomas Seymour. The eagerness, the obvious need to do some external task, concerned Rhoslyn, who at last asked what was wrong. Pasgen smiled faintly and said he was just tired of research about power. These last weeks, he had been involved with Gaenor in discovering why a Bright Court Sidhe’s domain had come apart, nearly killing its maker.

  Rhoslyn paled and whispered, “How is that possible?” She swallowed. “Is it like … Did it want to kill him?”

  “No.” Pasgen sighed and then uttered a somewhat shamefaced chuckle. “Gaenor and I—I am afraid we spend too much time watching and thinking about that self-willed Chaos Land. That was the first idea that came to us and we tried and tried to find even a scrap of “thinking” mist. Finally Gaenor called in her last student, Lady Hafwen.”

  There was no difference in Pasgen’s expression; there was no change in his voice when he said the name. Nonetheless Rhoslyn’s heart squeezed and she had to look down at her hands to hide her eyes.

  “She had a good laugh at our expense for seeking out mysterious horrors that did not exist,” Pasgen continued, without seeming to notice Rhoslyn’s reaction, “and in half a day she had found what Gaenor and I completely overlooked, a basic flaw in the construction that caused the collapse. You would like Lady Hafwen, Rhoslyn. She is a maker of some ability. She was fascinated when I told her about the not-horses and your girls, about how much self-will they have.”

  “If she did not disapprove of my girls,” Rhoslyn said, “I know I would like her. Should we arrange to meet?”

  “She is Bright Court,” Pasgen said flatly.

  Rhoslyn’s heart sank and a hot fury rose in her. Seleighe bitch, she thought. She was all sweetness and fluttering eyelashes when she recognized Pasgen’s power, and then Gaenor, the old fool, must have told her that Pasgen was Dark Court and that non-Lady Hafwen had acted as if he were meat turned putrid.