This Scepter'd Isle Read online

  The disorientation was terrible, worse than Rhoslyn had ever felt before. She had not realized how magically depleted, how physically exhausted, she was. Rage, grief, and fear had filled her completely. Now, facing the end, the necessary admission of total failure, even the negative emotions that had upheld her sank into a black depression. She staggered, went to her knees, her eyes closing.

  A painful grip on her arm yanked her forward, out of the Gate area, pulled her upright. She stared around at Pasgen's windowless but brilliantly lit workroom. Because the Gate was only supposed to exist for less than a day, Pasgen had set it up in one of his workrooms. He been waiting for her, eager to collapse the Gate which was a constant drain on him. He shook her so that her teeth rattled, and shouted at her.

  "Where is FitzRoy? I thought we had agreed that you would bring him here where there was the least chance of tracing him!" He shook her again, his voice rising with anger. "Where is he?"

  Rhoslyn opened her eyes; it took as much effort as to climb a mountain. "The changeling is dead, and I don't have FitzRoy," she said flatly.

  He snarled. "Dead! What in the lowest plane of demons ails you? How could you make a simulacrum that would not last at least a few hours?"

  Anger gave Rhoslyn strength again, and enough energy to wrest her arm out of Pasgen's grip and stalk through the door of his workroom. It was a Gate, and nearly brought her to her knees again, but it left her in the short corridor between his bedroom and his living room. Steadying herself against the wall for a moment, she turned into the latter, and sank down on one of the uninviting looking but comfortable sofas.

  "The changeling was murdered," she said to Pasgen, who appeared in the doorway moments later, face stormy with rage.

  But that brought him up short. "Murdered?"

  It was her turn to snarl. "Blast you, can't you do anything but repeat what I say? Go and shut down the Gate. There's no need for you to feed it. We won't be going back to Windsor again."

  Pasgen's mouth dropped open. Rhoslyn could not tell whether it was surprise at her vicious tone or a prelude to shouting at her, but clearly he realized that first things should come first, and he went back out presumably to the Gate that would take him to his workroom so he could close down the Gate to Windsor. Rhoslyn closed her eyes again. She did not yield to her first impulse, which was to run away and cry until she slept; she did rest and draw in power from the ambience of Underhill.

  First her fear faded. It was clear that Pasgen would not abandon her. Despite her assurances to herself, she had always wondered whether, if she made a serious enough blunder, he would walk away and leave her to her fate. Then her rage settled from a boiling hot turmoil into a kind of hard determination to repay Denoriel—with usurious interest—for what he had done to her. That determination, like hardened lava, covered her grief, although somewhere deep inside she was bruised and torn.

  "What do you mean the changeling was murdered? Is a changeling enough alive to be murdered?"

  Rhoslyn's eyes snapped open; she sat straighter on the sofa. "Mine was!" she spat. "He was as much a child as any mortal living, and he would have passed as Harry FitzRoy for however long he lived . . . but Denoriel sucked out the power that gave him life and cast the husk away."

  "Denoriel?" Pasgen cleared his throat as he realized he had again repeated what Rhoslyn said. "Denoriel was not supposed to be there. It cost me five servants to watch for his movements. Having them pass as human ate their energy so fast I could not always save them."

  "I will make you more," she promised wearily.

  Pasgen shrugged, as if her offer was of no account. "Denoriel never came to Windsor before two of the clock and often not until four or five. Twice—no, three times he came secretly in the night, or it might have been another Sidhe—the servants do not see as well as we do at night. Whoever it was entered through a magicked door and climbed the castle wall to enter through a magicked window. Denoriel never came to Windsor in the morning. That muscle-bound sword swinger had not brains enough—"

  She interrupted him with a snort. "That muscle-bound sword-swinger outthought us from the moment he took on the care of FitzRoy. I was wrong about him. He is more, much more. Even if Denoriel had not been there to interfere, my plans were in ruins." She thrust out her right hand which was still reddened and slightly puffy. "I could never have touched the boy to change his clothes with the simulacrum. I do not know whether I could even have cast a sleep spell that would hold him. FitzRoy was wearing cold iron in a form that was deadly! And he had been wearing it on his flesh for a long time."

  "Cold iron? But then how could Denoriel . . ."

  Once again she interrupted him. "Pasgen, we have always underestimated him. Do not, I pray you, do so any longer. I have discovered to my sorrow that he is more than a simple-minded warrior. He is cleverer than I would have believed. He saw the boat in the coach and must have guessed I left it there to induce the child to climb in. He went to get it, saw my poor little changeling . . ."

  Her mouth trembled and she steadied it with an effort and continued, "And he is strong! He bent over FitzRoy as if the aura of cold iron did not exist. I had to walk at arms' length and I could barely keep my gorge from rising or resist the pangs in my arms and legs. He stood right beside FitzRoy and handed the boat to the child. I think their fingers touched and he did not even wince."

  Pasgen stared at her, then said quietly, "Let us not go overboard the other way and start to believe Denoriel invincible. He has a resistance to the devil metal . . . I had heard that. I think mother told me. And of course he knew the child was carrying it so it did not take him by surprise, as it took you. What troubles me much more than any strength Denoriel has is that he thought to arm FitzRoy with cold iron . . . and that he somehow knew you were in the palace that morning."

  Rhoslyn sighed. "I think I know the answer to how he knew I was in the palace. A very strict watch is kept over FitzRoy since those stupid Spaniards attacked him. No one is allowed to approach him at all, so I had to get permission from the duke of Norfolk to speak to the boy. And I wanted him called out of his schoolroom before Denoriel could possibly arrive. While I was . . . ah . . . convincing Norfolk to call the child from his lessons to go with me I . . . I sensed something of a Seleighe spirit and . . . and there was—I did not see it with my eyes but there was a flash of white."

  "There and then gone?"

  "Yes."

  Pasgen's lips thinned. "An air spirit set to watch. But for what? For you? For me?"

  She thought about that, thought about the limited thinking ability of an air spirit. "I would say for any Sidhe. That tells us that Denoriel was the only one who was attending to FitzRoy, but that is of no benefit to know now. FitzRoy is leaving for Yorkshire tomorrow, and Denoriel is riding with the cortege."

  "And the air spirit, too, which means that if we approach the cortege, Denoriel will be warned." He frowned. "Still, air spirits are notably inconstant. I can think of more than one device that would confuse it or draw it away. And there should be some easy way to distract Denoriel. Along the roads the cortege will travel in a long drawn-out party. Surely we should be able to separate FitzRoy from the others."

  Rhoslyn had begun shaking her head as soon as Pasgen mentioned the air spirit and distracting Denoriel. "You will not draw away or distract this air spirit. I suspect Aleneil's fine hand is on the creature. Doubtless she has bound it in some way to its task. And nothing will distract Denoriel. Any threat to the cortege would clamp him to FitzRoy's side like a stickfast. Not to mention the boy's own guards, who remember clearly what happened to those whose failure of attention permitted the attempt to drown him. Don't even think of it, unless you mean to call out the whole Wild Hunt."

  Pasgen shook his head. "Not that, nor to do anything else that might call Vidal Dhu's attention."

  She shuddered at that reminder. "I doubt I will need to call his attention after I tell him—"

  But Pasgen cut her off. "You will tell him nothing.
He did not know when we intended to make this attempt. There is no reason for him to know that we failed."

  "I failed, not you," she said despairingly.

  "I as much for not thinking and planning better." Pasgen's face contorted into a grimace of irritation and dissatisfaction. "It is too bad that the changeling was lost, but it will matter much less in the wilds of Yorkshire. We may need to wait a few months, but I believe that our first plan was too complicated. I will have to discover where Denoriel has his Gate placed, then I will create one for us. Sooner or later it will be possible for us to herd FitzRoy through that Gate, and never mind substituting anything. Why should we have bothered with creating a substitute at all? He will simply be lost, and they will not know where, and when he is gone, the future that Lord Vidal wanted will come to pass."

  Rhoslyn sat up straighter and her eyes brightened. "But first we need to be rid of that accursed air spirit. I can bind a few minor Unseleighe creatures to follow and watch the cortege. Inside Windsor using hobgoblins and the like was impossible, but their auras will be less apparent out in the countryside and Denoriel may not associate them with himself or FitzRoy if I use a different one each day. As soon as they discover what form the air spirit has taken for watching FitzRoy, I will devise some constructs whose single purpose will be to kill it."

  Pasgen shrugged. "That would be a waste of time and effort. It will be replaced quickly and to repeat the killing will betray us. Anyway, do not have it killed on the journey to Yorkshire. That will tell Denoriel too much. Let him try to guess what we intend to do and wear himself out watching. And, despite Vidal's hysteria, it will be years in the future before we need worry about the boy usurping Princess Mary's place. A month more or less—a year—more—it would not matter. We have time to watch and wait until after the Gates are set. Then we can take him."

  Rhoslyn said nothing, afraid that Pasgen would read in her words how much her arms ached to curve around a small, warm body, to hold a child that wriggled and laughed and cuddled against her for comfort. She made herself shrug in response to Pasgen's reasoning, but inside she reaffirmed her determination to have FitzRoy. She would rub Denoriel's nose in the foul mess of defeat. And she would tell no one, not even Pasgen, that she had the child. He would be hers, all hers, for as long as she wanted him.

  This new place in Yorkshire to which FitzRoy was going was far more rural than Windsor. It was far from the court in London, from the Spanish embassy, and from the minions of the Emperor Charles. The vigilance around FitzRoy would soon relax. Denoriel could not live with the boy, and he too would often be absent keeping up with his friends in Henry VIII's court.

  Another idea occurred to her. Pasgen had a fine hand with Gates. Surely he could do something that would make Denoriel's personal Gates answer her. Or if he could not do that, perhaps he could repattern the Gate so that it would dump Denoriel into Vidal's Court or just lose him completely in the Unformed chaos lands. And if Denoriel was out of the way, she might not have to wait so long before she had FitzRoy in her arms. This time she would leave no changeling behind with half her heart. She would snatch FitzRoy and let the blame fall where it would.

  CHAPTER 13

  The white kitten was in the grain trough when Denoriel reached Miralys's stall, and the straw was still mounded up slightly where he had covered the changeling's body.

  :Out gate:

  Denoriel nodded wearily, acknowledging the air spirit's report that Rhoslyn was gone. The bone-deep ache of exposure to cold iron was fading, but he felt cold and exhausted. His power channels were sore too, and he had not touched mortal-world power. He supposed it was from setting and releasing the Don't-see-me spell so often and from casting that strong shield around Harry. And his work had barely started.

  "I don't think anything more will happen," he said in a low murmur to the air spirit, "but since this is the last full day Harry will be in Windsor, I'm not sure. If this is a good location for the Unseleighe for some reason, they may be desperate and try again to take him. You had better stay close to Harry, and come for me no matter where I am or what I am doing if another Sidhe enters Windsor."

  :Done:

  The little creature giggled happily and was gone. It had plainly enjoyed all the chasing and finding, but Denoriel hoped never to have another morning like this one. He slipped down to his knees and brushed the straw off the simulacrum.

  The Don't-see-me spell had faded—Denoriel had not put much power into it because he expected to dismiss it shortly—and his breath caught at the likeness to Harry. Rhoslyn was a maker of rare skill. If it had not been for the aura of magic that imbued the child . . . construct . . . he would have been fooled. Denoriel shook his head, but then he reached out and smoothed back the little boy's hair.

  What was he to do with this . . . this creature? He leaned closer, frowning. Surely the . . . the child's breathing was shorter and shallower than it had been, his little face paler? Denoriel's throat tightened. The spells! Could the sleep spell and his own Don't-see-me spell be drawing on the changeling's small store of power?

  Denoriel snatched up the child, trembling with panic. But even as he was about to mount Miralys and tell him to breach the wall between the worlds, he realized he did not know what such violent transmission would do to the already fragile being he held in his arms. Would that be worse than another Don't-see-me spell? But the Don't-see-me spell would only be in effect for minutes.

  Swallowing nervously, Denoriel cast it, and walked out of the stable, leading Miralys. He knew he looked awkward with one arm cocked across his chest as if he were carrying something—which, of course, he was—but he walked quickly, scowling, and none of the stable boys approached him.

  Mounting was not easy, but Miralys helped, and then they were gone from the stable area and just rounding the curve that would take them to the front gate. And as soon as they were out of sight of the Windsor guards, Denoriel dismissed the Don't-see-me spell. He looked down into the child's face, which was surely paler and more pinched, and clutched the boy to him—but he didn't know how to send power into the child.

  "Miralys," he breathed . . . and they were at the Gate to Elfhame Logres, and then Miralys stopped at Mwynwen's door.

  Denoriel could not remember having decided what to do with FitzRoy's changeling, but Miralys was often wiser than he. This was obviously the best answer to the problem. He sent an anguished mental call to Mwynwen, and struggled out of the saddle. The door opened. Mwynwen stood in it, but there was no welcome in her face and little concern for what had forced that plea from him . . . until she saw the bundle in his arms.

  "FitzRoy?" she gasped.

  "No, his changeling. And it is dying, I think."

  "Come in. Come in quickly."

  The walls were all a soft and soothing white with moldings and borders of a pale, grayish blue that radiated calm. Denoriel had never paid much attention to this part of Mwynwen's home. Mostly he had come in through the garden to her private quarters and was not seeking calm but excitement and pleasure. If the effect had worked on him while he was ill, he did not remember it. Now he was grateful as the pain in his throat and chest eased and his bowels unknotted.

  She led the way past two modest-sized reception rooms and a parlor to a cross corridor that had several closed doors. She turned left and went to the end of the corridor where she opened the last door. Denoriel's breath drew in with surprise. It was a small room, but the walls were painted with lively murals, scenes of childish gaiety—there were children rolling hoops, chasing each other, hiding behind bushes, playing with dogs and lambs.

  The wall opposite the door held two large bay windows, each of which had a window seat that looked out—one onto a farmyard with ducks and geese, chickens and calves; the other onto a near meadow in which colts were at play. Against the right-hand wall was a small sofa, just large enough for a child and another person to sit side by side. Against the other was a small bed with a gay counterpane. In the center of the room was a table
on which were blocks and some small figures.

  Denoriel was stunned into silence. Magically cleaned and aired, how long had this room stood ready for the healing of a child?

  "On the bed," Mwynwen ordered.

  He laid the boy down, his arms loosing the child reluctantly. Mwynwen pushed past him, running her hands up and down from the simulacrum's head to his toes, whispering to herself, biting her lip and shaking her head. Denoriel stood back, wringing his hands in silent anxiety. He tried to think that what he felt was stupid; a changeling could not live long in any case. But all that line of reasoning accomplished was to bring back the pain in his chest and throat, the grinding in his belly, and tears to his eyes.

  But then, Mwynwen drew a deep breath and laid her hands on the child's head. Now her voice rang out clear and Denoriel felt a tingling as some spell disintegrated and then a sort of rushing, as if a strong breeze blew past him, only the air did not move.

  "Good morrow, sweetheart."

  Denoriel blinked. He had never heard that tone in Mwynwen's voice, no matter how sweet, how intimate their caresses had been.

  "Who are you?"

  FitzRoy's voice. Denoriel swallowed hard.

  "I am the lady with whom you are now to live, dearling."

  Denoriel's lips parted to protest and then closed. Someone would have to watch over the changeling for signs of failing and if possible repair the fault. The best person to do that was Mwynwen. Aleneil could, but she was not principally a healer. And there was no need to ask if Mwynwen was willing; her eyes, her voice, the way she bent toward the child . . . construct . . . Denoriel recalled Aleneil's warning to him, but Mwynwen would know without telling. Even so, she would have fought him if he tried to take the changeling away.