“Mistress,” Albertus called, when he saw her head turn, “could you give me a moment and look at this shawl?”
Elizabeth hesitated, the two women stopping alongside.
Albertus began on the tale of his wife and the many shawls. “And this one is truly unusual,” he said, his breath coming a little short as he saw Vidal right behind the group, his hands reaching toward the tops of the two ladies’ heads. “But do you think it ugly?”
He held the shawl out to Elizabeth. It was a fascinating pattern in odd shades of green and violet and orange. Truly she could not decide whether she thought it ugly. She took a step closer, not noticing that the ladies were no longer right alongside.
Denoriel rose gratefully from the seat on the dais on which he had judged the wrestling matches, the cudgel work, and the quarterstaff bouts. He had been highly amused by the cudgel fights. He had wondered how Prince Idres Gawr would fulfill his promise that no one would be seriously hurt if the bouts were to be fought in earnest.
He learned that the Cymry Sidhe, or, at least, Idres Gawr, were indeed clever users of magic. Each cudgel was bespelled to weigh and feel exactly like the true weapon, and when it landed, to cause such pain as a stroke from a cudgel would. If it struck a vulnerable place, like the head, the blow would seem to render the victim unconscious; however, the cudgels were actually nothing but a hollow tube that squirted colored dye each time they struck an opponent with sufficient force and did no real harm at all.
The same was true of the quarterstaffs and would be true during the afternoon matches with swords and javelins. Only the bows and arrows were perfectly natural, since the targets of stuffed leather could not be hurt. He had enjoyed himself and hoped Elizabeth had also enjoyed herself, but he was now ready for a nuncheon and he wanted to eat it with Elizabeth.
He went directly to the pavilion where music was playing and immediately saw Lady Ilamar … but Elizabeth was not with her. His heart in his throat, he made his way to Ilamar and asked anxiously for Elizabeth.
“Now, now, there is nothing to fly into a pelter about,” the lady said, smiling. “Cymry is a safe place. Elizabeth got hungry and impatient with sitting still so long. You know what mortals, especially young ones, are. I sent her off with two of my ladies to the serving pavilion. You will find her there or looking at the fairings. The child said she had tokens enough.”
“Yes, thank you.” Denoriel gave a sketchy bow and rushed out.
His entry into the serving pavilion was so precipitous that he ran into two Sidhe, who had paused in the entryway to look around. He began to dodge past and was caught.
“Don’t you bother to say— Denoriel, what’s wrong?” Aleneil asked.
“Elizabeth’s gone,” he said, pushing past her to look around the pavilion. “Lady Ilamar let her go with just two mortal serving women.”
“Cymry is a safe place,” Ilar said, lips thinning. “We only recently conducted a sharp lesson on what befalls those who transgress. Let us ask the serving women before you imagine horrors.”
The report from those who provided the food was soothing. They all remembered Elizabeth, because of her red hair and because their FarSeers, like those of Avalon, had seen the possible future if she became queen. They all agreed that she had been surrounded by women who were eager to meet her, that she had eaten soup and bread and cheese and fruit with the others, and that they had all gone out together.
“She will be looking through the booths,” Ilar said. “Come and eat something. Then we will find her. After all she has just eaten. She will not want to join us.”
“No,” Denoriel said. “I must find her first.” And he started down the most direct aisle of booths.
“What—” Ilar began.
Aleneil had turned toward the aisle of booths to the right. “The Dark Court want her dead,” she said to him.
Ilar hurried after her. “There are no Dark Court Sidhe in Cymry. We did have one, but she was caught in a filthy act and we punished her and set her in Wormgay, from where she will not ever trouble anyone again.”
“I hope you are right,” Aleneil said over her shoulder, “but Denoriel will not rest a moment until—”
“Here!” Denoriel called, waving to his sister. “She went this way with her two ladies.”
The boothkeeper to whom he had spoken was one of the women introduced to Elizabeth in the serving pavilion. She told him Elizabeth was just intending to walk down to the end of the aisle and then over to the next aisle. Denoriel swallowed and went along. Two booths down, another man had seen Elizabeth. There were only four or five women together he said, but the red hair was unmistakable. The mortals in Cymry were nearly all dark-haired.
“Did anyone seem very interested in her?” Aleneil asked. “Did anyone seem to be watching her?”
“No.” The man seemed rather surprised. “We all looked at the red hair, of course, but no one seemed to be trying to stop her or speak to her.”
Denoriel let out a relieved sigh, but when Ilar urged him again to return to the serving pavilion, he shook his head. “I must see her and be sure,” he said, and continued down the aisle until a sharp cry made him break into a run.
“My shawl!” a boothkeeper was shouting. “He took my shawl.”
However it was not her accusation that turned Denoriel’s guts to ice. It was seeing two women standing not far from the booth, who did not turn their heads toward the cries, who did not move, who did not seem even to breathe.
“Where did he go? Was he alone?” Denoriel asked trying to project calm despite his panic. “What happened?”
“He wanted a special shawl, one that was like no other,” the woman said, rather breathlessly. “I had one. I do not know what possessed me to make it. It was all swirls and then sudden breaks and hard edges—”
“Yes, yes,” Denoriel interrupted. “But the one who took it? A man? A woman? Was he alone?”
“He called to a red-haired girl who was walking by and asked her if the shawl was ugly. He held it out. The girl came toward him. Then, suddenly, he wrapped the shawl around her and someone rushed by—I didn’t see much of him, just a big man … and they were gone. Gone with my shawl. But none of them were Sidhe. None could do magic, so how were they suddenly gone?”
Aleneil had stopped near the frozen women while Denoriel went to question the woman who had lost her shawl. Ignoring Ilar’s expression, which had become horrified when he saw the women were in stasis, she released the two waiting women from Vidal’s spell.
“Lady Eliz—” one of them said, starting forward and peering around. “She’s gone again,” she said to her companion. “I swear I just blinked, and she is gone.”
“I think it was more than a blink,” the second woman said, her eyes resting on Aleneil.
“You were put in stasis,” Aleneil said quickly. “What did you see before you ‘blinked.’ “
“There was a man—”
“Sidhe?” Aleneil asked.
“Oh, no,” the second woman said. “He was assuredly mortal. Old. With gray hair and lines on his face, and his hands shook as if he were frightened.”
Frightened. Aleneil swallowed. One of the mortals who had been forced to help to take Elizabeth. “So, this man?”
“He was looking at shawls,” the first woman put in quickly. “There must have been a hand and a half full of them lying on the counter. And he had the most outré-looking one in his hands, all violet and green and orange. He called out to Lady Elizabeth and she looked toward him, and …”
She stopped speaking, her eyes going wide. The other woman said, “And then I don’t remember anything until you—”
“Go back to Lady Ilamar and stay with her,” Ilar said severely. “Do not wander around the fairings alone anymore.”
The women made frightened exclamations, clasped hands, and hurried away together. Ilar and Aleneil rushed forward to join Denoriel just in time to hear the booth-keeper say that none of the people who had taken her shawl were Sidhe
, so how could they disappear.
“The ladies sent with Elizabeth were in stasis!” Ilar exclaimed. “Mother watch over the child. There must have been a Sidhe involved, a Sidhe disguised as mortal. I fear your Elizabeth has been abducted. I will go and tell Prince Idres Gawr—”
If Denoriel heard him he gave no sign; he was staring at the booth woman. “They disappeared,” he repeated, “Did you hear anything, anything at all? See anything? You were staring at the place where they disappeared …”
“Gate,” the woman said. “Someone said ‘Gate’ just as they winked out.”
“Gate?” Ilar repeated, looking ahead and then right and left. “Where is the Gate?”
“What do you mean, where is the Gate?” Aleneil asked.
“There should be a Gate at the end of this aisle of booths. See, look down there, you can just make out the Gate at the next aisle—”
“Dear Mother, help,” Denoriel breathed. “Let it be a concealment spell.”
He began to mutter and gesture, and sure enough the Gate reappeared.
“He did the quickest thing,” Aleneil sighed. “He was afraid Elizabeth would break the Don’t-see-me spell or he was distracted. She must have been fighting him—them. But how could she fight two strong men?”
Denoriel let out his held breath and started toward the Gate. “She had her shields up. I warned her before she went off with Lady Ilamar to put up her shields. Whoever tried to seize her would not be able to get a grip on her.”
“Good shields?” Ilar asked anxiously hurrying after him.
“Tangwystl’s shields,” Denoriel said. “There are no better.”
“But where are you going?” Ilar cried, catching at Denoriel’s arm. “Come with me to Idres Gawr. He will be able to trace them, I hope … But the Gates are all open Gates to accommodate visitors from all over …”
“I think I know where they will arrive,” Denoriel said, his eyes fixed and staring as they stepped into the Gate. “If Elizabeth was really frightened and angry, there is one place they are almost certain to go …”
What Elizabeth felt when the shawl went around her and she felt herself propelled forward, was sheer rage. Perhaps under the rage was a flicker of fear, but her shields were up and at full strength and she knew no one could hurt her physically.
She did not know who was trying to seize her, but she did know that they had ruined not only the happy day she had been enjoying but probably other free and happy times in the future. Now she would be watched and guarded ten times more closely. She loved Denno, loved him dearly, but she did not love to have him breathing down her neck whenever they were doing anything outside of his bedchamber in Llachar Lle.
She heard a man’s deep voice cry “To the Gate” or “In the Gate” and sheer vicious pleasure drew back her lips as she fixed her mind on the mist. On the lovely friendly mist that had made her a kitten once and then made her a lion to save her.
Mist! She demanded with every fiber of her anger fueled by that oily spray of fear. Mist! Come for me, mist! And something black/red and hot fountained up inside her and strange little symbols floated atop the boiling of her rage and her fear.
“Where are we?” a second man’s voice cried, thinner and tremulous.
“Stickfast! Fiat!” Elizabeth yelled and lurched forward, freeing herself from the shawl, and tumbling off the Gate platform.
Fortunately it was not much of a fall and the shields protected her from any bruise. The fall was fortunate too because she felt a hand, inhumanly swift, grab for her. He would have caught her if she had jumped off the platform standing. Now she did not rise but crawled away as fast as she could in the few moments before the stronger voice roared a counterspell to her stickfast.
Around her the mist was thick as wool, impenetrably white. Elizabeth rolled over and sat up. “Greetings, mist,” she said. “I’m sorry I only seem to come here when I’m in trouble but I haven’t been Underhill much until a few weeks ago. I was in trouble in the mortal world.”
A faint frisson of remembered panic passed over her. The mist billowed around her and in the distance she heard a faint roar.
“Oh no, mist. No more lions, please. That one did save me but it was too hungry and too mean. We are going to have to think of something else so I can get away from these people. I don’t know who they are or what they want, but—”
Her voice—she had been speaking in normal tones—cut off suddenly as the mist began to thin between her and the Gate. Elizabeth heard the strong man’s voice chanting and she drew in a sharp breath and got to her feet.
“Please, mist,” she whispered, “don’t let them find me. I hope they are not hurting you, but … but …”
She ran off at an angle where the mist seemed to be thicker and then heard the thinner voice cry out, “Prince Vidal, beware—”
That voice cut off suddenly as if the speaker had been silenced and she heard Denno call her name. She looked around wildly, saw another thicker patch of mist and yelled. “Denno! I am here! I am unharmed, but Vidal is causing the mist to thin. If he finds me—I must flee, Denno, to some place further so he cannot follow my voice!”
“Elizabeth, be careful. You’ll get lost in the mist. Come back toward our voices, toward the Gate. There are three of us here to protect you.”
Elizabeth wondered why he thought she would get lost; she always knew where the Gates were. But fortunately the thicker patch of mist was in the direction of the Gate and she darted off that way, looking anxiously through the thinning mist behind her for a shadow. She was afraid she would run right into the arms of her attacker.
“Let her alone, Vidal,” Aleneil called. “Let us take Elizabeth back safely and I will not go to Titania and tell her you were trying to harm Elizabeth.”
“Done is done,” the strong voice snarled. “When she’s dead the Dark Court will be stronger than the Bright. Whatever Titania thinks she will do to me will fail.”
Elizabeth gasped with fear and shrank back into the small curdling patch of safety as the mist in the whole area between the Gate and Vidal’s voice faded. Beyond, the mist was thicker. A hint of red hair shone through it, perhaps coming toward the Gate. Suddenly Vidal plunged out into the open area and rushed toward the glint of red.
Aleneil screamed.
Denoriel leapt after Vidal, his drawn sword in his hand, crying out in terror because he knew he would be too late.
He was. Vidal’s long knife plunged. Plunged again. Ripped upward and downward.
Out of the mutilated body came long streamers of mist, not thin and fragile, but glinting in the twilight like liquid silver. Before Denoriel could plunge his sword into Vidal, the bands had bound him round and round and round. Vidal’s voice, high and thin with terror, shrieked to be let loose, to be set free, but the streamers of mist rising from the torn body seemed endless and continued to entangle him in a strangling cocoon of—what?
“Elizabeth …” Denoriel sobbed, down on his knees beside the body.
“That isn’t Elizabeth,” Aleneil breathed, shaking so hard that the tremors moved Denoriel’s tense shoulder. “Look at the face. It isn’t … It isn’t even a bad making.”
Then Elizabeth’s hand joined Aleneil’s on Denoriel’s shoulder, but she didn’t look down at him, she looked away into the mist. “Oh, mist,” she said, tears in her voice, “was that your girl? Oh, I am so sorry. So sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Did she feel a little tugging at her mind? Elizabeth almost called up her inner shield, but it was such a small tugging away, not a pushing in. She didn’t fight it.
A moment later, Denoriel gasped. A vaguely familiar male figure with blonde hair, but no better defined than the red-haired creature, had stepped out of the mist. It bent and lifted the fragile, paper-thin remainder, almost unrecognizable except for the red hair, and carried it away. One streamer of mist was still attached to whatever-it-was and Vidal was drawn after it, screaming for help.
Epilogue
They had all gathered in Gaenor’s house because Oberon did not generally send his Thought over Elfhame Elder-Elf. The eldest of his children were the least likely to bring disaster Underhill. Oberon Knew that the mortal Harry FitzRoy had wakened many of the eldest, but they had more wisdom, enough to keep FitzRoy in check, and Oberon was pleased with the foresight that had made him mark Harry with the blue star. Fortunately Elizabeth’s bright aura was masked by those of the Sidhe around her and did not draw Oberon’s attention. As a centerpoint for disaster, Elizabeth was high on Oberon’s list.
Gaenor’s house was small, but it obligingly stretched itself to accommodate the whole party. Sitting on the floor at Rhoslyn’s feet, Harry shook his head.
“Oh, no,” he said. “This is way beyond me, unless you want me to go into the mist, find Vidal, and shoot him with this.” He tapped the holstered gun that shot iron bolts.
“Go right ahead,” Elizabeth said. “I’m tired of being Vidal Dhu’s favorite target.”
“No,” Pasgen protested. “If you shoot him, Oberon will make me rule the Dark Court, and I’ve never done anything evil enough to merit that kind of punishment.”
“No,” Denoriel said, almost simultaneously. Then he waited courteously for Pasgen to finish and added. “Harry can’t go into the mist. He’ll be lost in it.”
“We will be wary for him,” Mechain said, smiling.
“And I do not think Vidal Dhu will be easy to kill, even with a steel bolt,” Elidir remarked. “Nor will he be easy to find if the mist wishes to hide him.”
“He recovered the last time I shot him,” Harry said, making a face.
“In any case, I cannot think it wise to kill the prince of the Dark Court,” Gaenor said. “Oberon has his reasons for what he permits and what he punishes. If you desire Prince Vidal punished more than what the mist has done, Elizabeth should complain to Oberon.”
By Slanderous Tongues Page 60