This Scepter'd Isle Read online

  "Doesn't want a Spaniard ruling in Mary's name either," George Boleyn pointed out, then looked at Denoriel. "You did us all a favor, Denno."

  Denoriel shook his head. "I only wanted to protect the boy. I've got quite fond of him."

  "He's a nice boy," George Boleyn repeated, "but there's no reason you shouldn't profit a bit from being a hero." He poked Francis Bryan who was nodding off in his corner of the carriage. "We're going boating with Henry tomorrow, aren't we, Francis? Don't you think the king ought to know exactly what happened?"

  "Norfolk'll have to report it," Bryan mumbled. "Sounds to me as if half the servants and guards at Windsor know."

  "Wake up, Francis!" Boleyn said, poking him again. "Of course Norfolk will report the attack, but how much credit do you think Denno will get for the rescue, eh?"

  "Please," Denoriel said, "I don't need any credit. Especially if it will annoy Norfolk. I've . . . ah . . . made a friend quite close to Windsor, and it suits me very well to be able to claim I've come to the area to visit Richmond."

  "A friend eh? Now who—"

  "Oh, no," Denoriel said, forcing a laugh as the coachman slowed the horses when they passed St. Thomas's. "No guesses about my friend. Luckily here is where I leave you. Thank you for the ride, Francis. And for heaven's sake don't come calling or send messages before noon. I won't be awake."

  He slipped out of the carriage before they could protest, and gave the coachman a signal to move on. And he managed to walk indolently toward his door trying to look tired and just a little drunk, in case they looked back at him. Inside he galloped right through a large reception room into a smaller, more private sitting room behind it. This had a discreet door at the back, almost invisible in the paneled wall, which was locked by magic. It swung open under his hand into a handsome, if small, stable with two stalls and a tack room.

  That door was also locked by magic, and the side wall of the room was bare wood. Denoriel walked right through it, caught his breath, and was at the Gate in Elfhame Logres. A mental cry brought Miralys and he leapt into the saddle, picturing the exit Gate at Windsor.

  Sensing his need, the elvensteed covered the mile to Windsor in moments, and Denoriel dismounted at the postern gate, opened the magic lock, and entered the garden with the pond. Miralys took himself to the copse right across the road to wait. Denoriel did not bother to waste magic on changing his clothing. He was dressed lavishly for the embassy affair and he did not expect to be seen anyway. As he ran through the garden, he gathered what power he could from the general ambience, hoping he would not need to sear his channels with the mortal world ley lines.

  At the gate to the pond garden, Denoriel paused and looked toward the palace. Two guards stood at the door. Denoriel cast the Don't-see-me spell and ran across the lawn to the place between the towers where the magicked window was. He climbed up, went through the window, and walked very softly out of that room and into the corridor.

  There were two guards at Harry's door and both of them were wide awake. Denoriel sighed. He was glad and also annoyed. It would be necessary to put both guards to sleep because the Don't-see-me spell was not enough. If the door to Harry's apartment opened the guards were sure to raise an alarm, even if they didn't see him. The spell did permit him to walk right up to them, murmur the sleep spell under his breath, and touch each. He left them rigid as ramrods, standing at their posts although they saw and heard nothing. If anyone should pass in the hall, all would seem well . . . provided no one spoke to them and expected an answer.

  Another two guards inside the room. Both turned toward the opening door and leveled halberds. Denoriel closed the door behind him, holding his breath, hoping they would think someone had opened the door, looked in, seen the threat and closed the door again.

  "Who was that?" one whispered to the other.

  "Don't know. Didn't see anyone."

  Denoriel stood still, breathing as silently as possible. The guards lifted the halberds to rest, and Denoriel's hopes rose, but he had rejoiced too soon.

  "I don't like that," the first guard said. "Nyle, go over and stand in front of the bedroom door. I'm going to ask Gerrit whether he opened the door and why."

  That did it. Denoriel invoked the sleep spell and touched the guard just as he reached for the door. He covered the room in three long leaps and touched the second man before he realized it was taking a long time for the first to open the door. Then he had to cling to the doorframe to keep from falling. He was freezing and utterly hollow inside, drained so far that it was an effort to breathe. His vision was fading, but bright against the gray of dimming sight was a brilliant thread. Denoriel reached, drank it down, welcoming the searing shock.

  CHAPTER 9

  Once Denoriel had made sure that the nurse would not wake, he approached the bed. Halfway there, he had to grit his teeth to force himself close enough to lift the bedcurtain. On the boy, the cross seemed to have even more power. He dared not touch Harry, but called softly to him until the boy turned and then sat up in the bed.

  "Put the cross into the pouch," he whispered. "The cold iron hurts me."

  Rubbing his eyes, but unquestioning, the boy did as he was told. For some reason that made Denoriel's guts lurch, but he didn't try to examine his anxiety at the moment. His mind was fixed on the unpleasant explanations he had to make. He dreaded telling the child about the need to wear the cross all the time and only put it into its pouch when he himself was near. But as soon as he said that, Harry looked at him with eyes that seemed much older than six and nodded. It was amazingly easy to explain about the use of the Iron Cross to FitzRoy.

  "Evil fairies," he said. "I know about evil fairies. They're in all the stories too. As soon as Norfolk gave me the cross and said you had sent it, I knew. Do you think . . . is it because my father wants to make me his heir that the evil fairies are interested in me? Princes always have trouble with evil fairies and magicians."

  "Likely," Denoriel said. He wouldn't lie to the boy.

  Harry sighed. "I hope I never get to be a prince. But even if I do, you'll take care of me, won't you Lord Denno?"

  "I'll do my best," Denoriel promised. "But you've got to watch out for yourself too. You have to wear the cross—you can wear it under your clothes so no one will ask why you're wearing an old iron cross every day. The only time you put it in the pouch is when I'm with you . . ."

  As he said the words, Denoriel suddenly realized why his bowels had knotted when without a doubt Harry had put his cross away at his request. With a feeling of sick helplessness he saw that Harry's knowing him might be a fatal trap. His half-brother Pasgen looked enough like him to be a twin. That semblance could get Pasgen past the guards at the palace gate, and Harry's own guards would be relaxed and careless.

  Unfortunately Pasgen was a tool of Vidal Dhu. Denoriel did not believe that his half-brother would harm a child, but at Vidal's order, he would certainly replace that child with a simulacrum and carry the child off to Vidal's domain. If Harry saw Pasgen, he would assume it was Denoriel, put his cross away, and become completely vulnerable.

  "There's one problem," Denoriel said, and then his voice faltered. He could not say his own brother was an evil fairy. "Evil fairies can put on a seeming. You mustn't put your cross away just because someone looks like me."

  Harry's eyes widened and filled with moisture. "If I can't trust you . . ." he quavered.

  "That part is easy," Denoriel said, sitting on the bed beside him and giving him a hug. "We'll have a secret signal. Before you put the cross into its pouch, you will say 'Where were you on Tuesday?' and I will say 'At the docks, looking for my ship, The Nereid.' "

  "But what if it is Tuesday?" The boy's eyes had brightened at the idea of playing this game.

  "Ah, then we need two more passwords. It's a very good idea to have two or three things to say so people won't hear you ask me the same question each time I come to see you."

  "I know. I can say 'Is that a new sword?' and you can say 'No, it's the
one I had the day your ship got broken.' "

  "That's good, Harry!" Denoriel grinned as he offered the heartfelt praise. "If you ask if the sword is new, someone who doesn't know the game would probably say yes. And saying it was the day the ship got broken . . . Hey-a-day, that's wonderful. Everyone knows about the fight, but the ship getting broken was only important to you."

  "One more," the boy said.

  "Will you be able to remember them all?"

  FitzRoy sighed and screwed up his face. "After all the lessons Master Croke sets me to learn by heart. Yes, I'll remember."

  Denoriel laughed. "Ah, yes. I'd forgotten that joy of childhood, learning lessons by rote. So, a third secret exchange . . . hmmm. Ask 'Which horse did you ride today, Lord Denno?' And I'll answer 'I rode Miralys.' I don't think anyone else knows the name of my horse"—Pasgen certainly did not know it—"so that will be safe."

  FitzRoy grinned happily and repeated the three exchanges a couple of times. The last time, however, the smile disappeared from his face and his eyes rounded with worry again.

  "But what do I do if the answer is wrong?" he asked.

  "Leave the cross bare, be sure you stay far enough away so he can't grab you, but don't panic if he does because he'll let go right away—the cross will hurt him and he'll be surprised—and then you can run away."

  "But if I run away from you . . . from someone who looks like you . . . I can't tell the guards it was an evil fairy, can I?"

  Denoriel laughed. "No, you can't. Even if they didn't laugh, it would make them suspicious of me the next time I came. You can call back that your belly is grinding and you must go to the jakes . . . or any other excuse for leaving quickly. Then send down a message that you don't feel well and don't go out again."

  FitzRoy thought that over, his face sober but no longer frightened. Denoriel was saddened. It wasn't right that a child should be so accepting of danger, so prepared to endure it. Mentally he cursed King Henry for endangering his son, and then laughed at himself. If Harry hadn't been involved in the succession, he would never have met the child. Had it been so short a time that he had railed at being a nursemaid?

  "How will I let you know if the evil fairy comes?" the boy asked.

  "By Our Lady, what would I do without you, Harry? You've got the wisdom for both of us. A poor fairy guardian I seem to be!"

  FitzRoy giggled. "You're a very good fairy guardian—at least I'm sure Master Croke would say so. He is forever telling me I must apply what I learn. You don't do everything for me. You let me think up things for myself." He shook his head. "But I can't think of an answer to that question."

  He smiled, glad that he was finally able to think of something else to add to FitzRoy's protections. "Aha! That's where fairy guardians have an advantage. We do have some helpful magic. Do you think your nurse would let you have a mouse as a pet?"

  The child blinked at him. "A mouse?"

  "Don't you like mice? Most boys do."

  "I like mice, but nurse . . ." He shook his head. "No. Not a mouse. One got into the room and she screamed and screamed, even after it was caught."

  Denoriel laid his hand on FitzRoy's shoulder, about to say he could manage the nurse but a dull ache started in his hand. Even shielded, the cold iron troubled him on close contact. He realized the boy had saved him from a serious mistake again—although this time without intending it. If Denoriel had brought a spirit of the air enchanted to look like a mouse and FitzRoy had touched it while wearing the unshielded cross, he might have killed the poor thing.

  "All right," he said, "no mice. Do you think I could talk her into a kitten?"

  FitzRoy wrinkled his nose again. "Her, sure. She'd like a kitten, but kittens are for girls!"

  "That doesn't matter," Denoriel urged. "You won't be able to touch it while you're wearing the cross anyway, so you can pretend it's Nurse's kitten and just has taken to following you around. That will be all right, won't it? Norfolk won't be here tomorrow, so I'll come up to your room and talk to Nurse. I'm sure she'll keep the kitten."

  "You're going to magic her, aren't you?"

  The boy had a face full of mischief, and Denoriel suddenly had the feeling that he was going to request his nurse be enchanted into allowing him greater freedom. "That's enough of that, young man," he said, trying to look severe when he really wanted to hug the child tight for his quick mind and his courage. "What if someone heard you?"

  "But what good will a kitten do?" Harry's eyes were bright with anticipation.

  "Kittens can vanish—even quite ordinary kittens disappear whenever you want them for something—and my special kitten can not only vanish but it will be able to find me."

  "Magic," the boy breathed, his eyes bright as stars. "But what if the bad fairy comes where I'm not allowed to take the kitten?"

  Denoriel raised an eyebrow. "Kittens can get in anywhere. Just pretend not to see it—if you do see it. And tell Mary not to mention it either. Probably Lord Henry won't see it at all."

  After a moment FitzRoy nodded and after another moment, he said softly, looking down at his fingers, "I know I'm a duke, and I'm supposed to be very clever and brave and protect my people, but will you give me another hug, Lord Denno?"

  Denoriel swallowed and quickly shifted his position on the bed so that he could pull the child into his arms. He held the boy very tight for a moment and then loosened his grip but continued to hold the child against his shoulder, ignoring the ache the cold iron started in his bone and muscle. His throat was tight with tears. He knew FitzRoy was well cared for, but did anyone ever hold him, tell him he was loved? The nurse probably loved him dearly, but she probably also believed it would be presumptuous of her to tell her high-born charge that she loved him.

  "I love you, Harry," Denoriel whispered.

  His vision blurred. Holding the boy was almost like having a child of his own—a joy he would likely never know. His arms tightened and he kissed the child's silky hair.

  It was as if the boy melted into his arms. FitzRoy rubbed his face against Denoriel's chest, sniffled a little, then sighed. Denoriel stroked his hair and, although the mage channels in his body burned and throbbed, he whispered a small spell of easy sleep and sweet dreams. But even when he knew Harry was asleep, he could not let go of the child. He himself almost fell into the resting state that served the Sidhe for sleep, holding the warm little body, but finally he stirred. He still had much to do if he was to finish the protections for FitzRoy.

  He laid the boy down, broke the spell he had put on the nurse, restored the Don't-see-me spell on himself and stepped out into FitzRoy's sitting room. The guards still stood where he had left them, one guarding FitzRoy's bedroom door and the other just about to reach for the handle on the door to the corridor.

  Although his mage channels were already raw and sore, Denoriel sought and found another ley line. Lightning coursed through him when he drew the power, and he bit a bloody gash in his lower lip to hold back a cry of pain. If only the Sidhe could endure the ravages of the magic of Overhill, they could be as strong in the mortal world as Underhill.

  Strength had flowed through him with the pain, but he could not use it at first for it was almost as painful to use Overhill power as to drink it in. He thought it was worse this time than it had been the last. A sane elf would forget that power existed. Denoriel sighed. He could not chance that his strength would fail and his nighttime visit to Harry be exposed.

  When he was steady, he opened the door to the corridor and stepped out, leaning back into the room to break the sleep spell on the guard near the bedroom door. As that guard blinked, he closed the door enough so that the hand of the guard reaching for the door just touched the handle. Quickly he touched both the outer door guards as he stepped between them to the other side of the corridor.

  The door opened all the way. The inner room guard leaned out, saying, "Gerrit, did you open this door a couple of minutes ago?"

  The man called Gerrit looked puzzled. "Of course not. Why wou
ld I . . ." He cocked his head. "Hmmm. I thought I heard a noise just before. Maybe I did open the door and look in."

  "Good! That's a relief. I could swear I saw the door open, but no one came in. Right. Keep alert."

  Denoriel sighed gently with relief and made his way to the room of the magicked window, then out the window and down the wall, across the garden, and out of the postern gate. Miralys, having sensed him coming, was waiting right there. And then they were in the copse at the crossroad and through the Gate where Denoriel chose the pattern that would take them to Elfhame Avalon.

  The guards at Avalon Gate looked amazed at his finery, but the cold prickle of the identity spell acknowledged him. He asked if Aleneil had left and was told that she had not. In moments Miralys had him at his sister's door, and she was opening it as he dismounted, her eyes wide with worry. He realized then that it wasn't just his clothing that made the guards stare, it was the way he looked—exhausted at the least, and possibly in pain. One did not often see a Sidhe in pain Underhill.

  "Are you hurt, Denoriel?" she cried the moment she saw him.

  "No. Yes." He shook his head. "Oh, not seriously, I believe. I am just weary and aching from using Overhill power."

  "Overhill power?" She stared at him, dumbfounded. "There is virtually no power in the mortal world."

  Denoriel blinked. "Yes there is. You don't see it?"

  She had backed away while he spoke to let him through the door and now she shut it behind him and gestured him through into her sitting room. Denoriel dropped into his favorite chair beside the settle; the luminous blue-green cushions reflected the delicate mother-of-pearl design and together seemed to cool and soothe his aching body.

  "I never looked, and I am not so often in the mortal world as you."

  "Most of the power is like a thin soup, but there are these bright lines within the soup and those . . ." He made a sound like someone who has taken a too-hot mouthful. Then he frowned. "I think they may be dangerous, and more dangerous the more you use them. I hurt more this time, and Underhill has not soothed me as well. I think I will have to go to Mwynwen. But that can wait. I must finish the protections for FitzRoy."