And Less Than Kind Read online

  Some months before Elizabeth's visit Underhill, Vidal Dhu, once Prince of the Dark Court, lay still and thought of a Gate. He had thought of nothing else for a very, very long time. If there was still rage and hate in him, it was buried so deep that even he could not find it.

  When he had first been wrapped in the bands of mist made smooth and strong as tight-woven silk, he had screamed and struggled. That had won him only more and tighter bonds, as the ribbons of mist wrapped his head and filled his mouth so that he could not even scream. Then, too late, he tried magic, spells of dissolution, spells of fire; but he could not even move his lips enough to form the spells and his hands, finger by finger, were bound so he could not gesture.

  At some time, he had fallen and lain utterly helpless on whatever floored the Unformed lands. Rage and hatred tore him and lashed him. He thrashed, rolled about, struggled to bend his legs, to free his arms—and the bands of mist only tightened.

  Eventually Vidal slipped into the state of rest that served the Sidhe for sleep. He was at first too totally enraged to notice, but the bands that swaddled him loosened somewhat while he rested, while he did not fight against his imprisonment, while the rage and hatred were dulled. Of course, each time he became alert and found himself still a prisoner, his wrath was renewed and the bonds tightened again.

  It happened many times before Vidal's fury, diminished minimally by exhaustion, allowed him to sense the slight relaxation of his bindings. Unwisely he fought to free himself, with the usual result of greater helplessness. That, too, happened many times before he lay still after he became fully aware. He did not struggle, but he still hated, and the mist would not let him go.

  A mortal would have died. Vidal could not even do that. The immense power that flooded this Unformed land seeped into him and satisfied the needs of his body. And as time passed, weeks, months, years in mortal time, Vidal learned. He lay quiet, almost peacefully, and thought of a Gate. The ribbons loosened.

  Vidal still lay quiet. He did not think of revenge—what revenge could be taken on an insubstantial mist?—he did not think of the cause of his entrapment, of Elizabeth, who had escaped him again. He thought peacefully and quietly of a Gate. And the bands of mist grew flimsy, like silk worn gossamer thin over many years of use and many washings. Vidal did not press against them. Even when they were only mist again, he did not move, did not try to rise. He thought of a Gate.

  Finally, thinking only of a Gate, he moved an arm. No band of mist formed to restrain it. He moved a leg . . . and thought only of a Gate. And in the end, he rose and the Gate was there. Vidal stepped up on the low platform and patterned Caer Mordwyn. He did not even rejoice over his escape until he had stepped out of the Gate and into his own domain.

  There not rejoicing but horror struck him. The road between the Gate and the palace was a dissolving ruin. Paving lay in uneven heaps; pit traps were exposed; predatory foliage was encroaching in some places, dying in others; and in some places the road had disappeared completely, vanishing into the mist from which it had been created.

  Deep, deep within rage flickered, and with an ability most painfully learned, was instantly suppressed. A moment more and Vidal realized there was no cause for rage, that no power but his had touched the domain—this part at least. The ruin was a result of failure to renew the power . . . and of hasty, shoddy work.

  Quietly Vidal looked down the road and remade it. Then came rejoicing. Within him was an immense well of power, strength he had feared to assess while a prisoner of the mist. The remaking of the road was no effort, was so small a withdrawal compared with the power he now held that it was as if he had done nothing.

  Vidal began to walk down the road toward his palace. He was smiling. By the end of a mortal week, he told himself, he would rid himself—permanently—of whoever thought to hold Caer Mordwyn and then he would rid the mortal world of the threat of Elizabeth as queen.

  In the end he did neither. When he reached the palace, to his intense surprise, Aurilia was there to greet him—and with every evidence of joy. She was the one who had reined in the exuberance of the Dark Court and saved it from angering Oberon.

  She had known of his entrapment from Albertus, she admitted. The mortal had Gated back to Caer Mordwyn with his amulet after the mist had made Vidal a prisoner.

  "But I looked for you," Aurilia told him most earnestly. "You know how I hate to leave Caer Mordwyn. Still, I looked and looked but I could never find that Unformed land."

  "Perhaps that is just as well," Vidal said mildly. "If you tried to help me, it might have taken you prisoner as well."

  Aurilia looked at him and shuddered, even as her breasts flushed and heat washed across her loins. Vidal was changed, more powerful than ever, less careless, in far better control of himself. Perhaps he was the best partner for her after all. So long as he would still move in the direction she set for him.

  She was brighter and more beautiful, Vidal thought, allowing his appreciation of her golden hair, green eyes, delicately formed ears, and lush body with its faint scent of decay to show. He did not hide the eagerness he felt to use that body.

  Aurilia saw. She turned away swiftly and began to mount the black marble stair, smiling back at him over her shoulder. In the black depths of his soul, far too deeply hidden to give any sign, Vidal marked another reason to distrust his partner.

  For all the outward gentleness, he was no less brutal in his coupling. He hurt her—well, she could have had no pleasure if he did not—but he did not cast her aside and leave when he was done. When they were at rest, Vidal lay back on the blood-red pillows of her bed and returned to the conversation lust had interrupted. Still softly but with adamant purpose he asked what she had done with Albertus. Aurilia took note, suppressing the chill that passed through her. She would need to be much more careful with this new Vidal.

  "He is back in the mortal world, making himself agreeable to the king's doctors," Aurilia said with a bright smile. "He has even suggested this and that remedy which has been helpful to the dying king. So I have quicker and better news of the Court than anyone."

  "Ah," Vidal said, one part of his mind pleased, but buried beneath that pleasure was resentment because Albertus had deserted him and not been punished. "That is good. I will be eager to hear how near Mary is to the throne. But before we come to that, do tell me how you managed the Court? I am very glad that Pasgen did not attempt to seize the domain again. I would hate to waste the power I have absorbed in destroying him."

  Aurilia shrugged contemptuously. "The power would be wasted, indeed, and destroying him without purpose. He never wanted to rule Caer Mordwyn. Oberon threatened to destroy everything if the beings of the Dark Court were not restrained." She smiled slyly. "But managing your subjects was not really difficult. One does not need great power for that. One only needs to be cleverer than they, and that is easy enough. Most of them, even the Dark Sidhe, are self-centered fools. It is easy to trick them into obedience."

  Anger flickered, was swallowed. "If it was so easy to deal with the Court, why did you leave the domain to rot!"

  Aurilia sighed. "The palace is strong and sound." She shrugged. "I had not the power to do more." She met his eyes but then let hers slide away.

  Vidal was not sure he believed that. He threw back the sheets and rose, aware of the admiration with which Aurilia examined his magnificent nakedness. Vidal was well aware of his striking perfection. He had worn the illusion of that perfection for so long that it was as instinctive as breathing. Aurilia stretched a hand to him and he was half tempted, despite being so newly sated, to respond. But he only smiled. Was cleverness managing him?

  "You have done very well," he said, showing his teeth in almost a smile. "Perhaps you would wish to continue to manage the Court while I make sure of Mary's accession and Elizabeth's demise?"

  "No!" Aurilia sat bolt upright and shuddered. Then she laughed. "No," she repeated more calmly. "I did not wish to lose Caer Mordwyn—" her eyes flicked around the luxur
ious room, the velvets and the silks, fur-rug strewn floor, the gold and diamond inlaid toiletries on the gleaming lapis lazuli counter, the flasks of priceless scents, the half-open door of the garderobe which exposed unbelievably rich garments "—so I contrived. But I want no part of ruling here."

  Vidal cocked his head and gestured clothing over himself. He was surprised to feel a certainty that she was sincere. She did not want to rule the Dark Court. What did she want? The answer came at once. She wished to rule him. Vidal actually smiled. That made sense. Aurilia had many skills and had studied magic, but she was no maker. For her, it was a great effort even to clothe herself, as he had just done almost without thought; he had made this room and its furnishings. She needed servants to dress her.

  He laughed and shook his head. "Lazy, that is what you are, Aurilia." It was perfectly true and he could now accept the fact that Aurilia was happy to pass to him the duties of ruling. What she wanted was status and the groveling of those to whom she gave orders.

  "I have better things to do with my time than spend every moment planning how to outwit your stupid subjects," she said, simpering at him.

  That was to make him believe she would occupy herself with devices to seduce him, Vidal thought, and in a way that was true too. But she would also study magic, strong magic that took little power. She was clever. Then if Elizabeth came to rule and little power came to the Dark Court, Aurilia would be the strongest worker of magic among them.

  Vidal smiled one last time at Aurilia and left her chamber for his own. There he stood, staring unseeingly at the throne chair on which he usually sat. If Elizabeth came to rule . . . For a long moment the deep well in which Vidal had buried his emotions roiled and the hard layer upon layer of blank nothingness that he had built up over four long years of imprisonment threatened to shatter.

  Unreasoning terror froze Vidal. He could feel the bonds of silken mist ribbons tighten around him. Elizabeth had caused his entrapment. If he had not tried to kill her and struck down that red-haired, doll-like creature which had contained the ribbons of mist, he would never have been caught. But he had learned from the experience. Rage and hatred were contained. He must not again leap at the first chance to destroy Elizabeth. He must think and plan.

  At first Vidal kept busy repairing his realm, suppressing any thoughts of Elizabeth. He was more careful in his making, fixing the landscape and the subtle traps in the landscape and near the Gates to sources of power that renewed themselves. However as the work grew more complex, he worried about that.

  Now there was an abundance of misery-generated power. With the young king steadily failing and the persecution of those who worshiped in the old faith increasing, anxiety and foreboding dripped more and more bitter-tainted power Underhill. But if something gave the realm hope, if the English welcomed Mary and were happy to return to the old faith, power might grow thin and what he had fixed to his landscape might deprive the living creatures and make them rebellious.

  That concern brought Elizabeth to the forefront of Vidal's mind again. Near the edges of the domain he became less meticulous; he was growing bored. The desire for active evil against the mortal world grew with the need to ensure his power. But Elizabeth was still beyond his reach. She was watched so closely among the spies from the Court, from her sister, and from the Bright Sidhe, that it was a miracle the girl could breathe.

  Worse, she was still able to look through illusion in the mortal world so he could not simply replace one of her servants or companions with an assassin. How would he reach her? The question nagged at him.

  Annoyed at finding no answer that satisfied him, Vidal posed the question to Aurilia some mortal months after his return. They were dining in his private chamber, the flesh hacked from a still living faun almost quivering on Vidal's plate. Aurilia looked up from her somewhat better cooked portion, with surprise in her large, green eyes.

  "Whatever would you bother about her for? She is making no preparations to usurp the throne from Mary—and if she started a civil war, it would be soon enough to act against her. Otherwise, when Mary comes to the throne, Elizabeth is as good as dead. Mary hates her for her mother's sake and envies her for her own charms—of which Mary has none. I would guess that within weeks of being settled into her power, Mary will have Elizabeth's head off."

  "No." The flat negative surprised Vidal as much as it surprised Aurilia. "I do not want Elizabeth to be honorably executed. I want her shamed, humiliated." Vidal swallowed as his mouth watered with a hunger that had nothing to do with the food on the table. "I want her to die slowly in my hands—"

  "No you do not!" Aurilia exclaimed, looking frightened. "Do you also want Caer Mordwyn invaded by Denoriel leading an army of Bright Sidhe, who all desire Elizabeth to be queen? He will no doubt bring that dung-spawned mortal with his gun and likely enough Titania and possibly even Oberon—"

  "Oberon cares nothing for Elizabeth."

  "Of course not, but he will care that he bade you let her be and you did not obey him. Let Elizabeth die at the hands of her sister, and leave the humiliation to Mary. No one will blame you for what Mary does. How she feels about Elizabeth is well known."

  What Aurilia said was all too true. Mary would come to the throne when Edward died and might well dispose of Elizabeth, and there would be no danger of reprisal from Oberon and the Bright Court. Vidal grimaced. That would ensure that the Dark Court would not be starved for power but would give him no satisfaction at all. No, not at all. Elizabeth must die by his doing.

  Vidal swallowed and sliced a tasty tidbit from the bloody portion on his plate. Recalling the fear on Aurilia's face when he spoke of disposing of Elizabeth, he decided it would be a mistake to confide too deeply in her. To save herself, she was quite capable of betraying him to Oberon.

  "I suppose you are right about that," Vidal said, "but I have been long away from affairs in the mortal world and I wish to be certain that Mary will do what we need done."

  "Ah. Yes. I said to let Mary do the deed. I did not say you should not help her along to make the decision. I know what is going on in the Court, but I have no influence there. You must sink hooks into those whom Mary trusts and they must advise her with one voice that to keep her throne, Elizabeth must die."

  Vidal frowned. "To sink hooks, I need to be more aware of what is going forward in the mortal world. On the other hand, I do not wish to use the Otstargi persona simply to gather news. That would betray to Otstargi's clients that he is not all-knowing and would reduce his influence and power."

  Aurilia shrugged. "You mean you wish to use Albertus?"

  "Yes."

  The slight hesitation before she replied showed she was unwilling, but what she said was "You are too rough with the minds of mortals. I do not want Albertus turned into an unthinking idiot. You can talk to him, but I do not want his mind stripped."

  "Very well."

  Vidal did not try to hide his dissatisfaction with the curb on his use of her servant. He hoped that would convince her that he would not meddle with Albertus's mind. But he did resolve to be careful in how he meddled. Aurilia was as skilled—no, to be honest, more skilled—in such matters as he. He would need to be very careful indeed, or she might armor her servant against him.

  Chapter 2

  On the very next mortal day, Vidal Gated to Otstargi's house. The nearly mindless servant was still there. The house was clean, the bedchambers ready; Otstargi's receiving room was the only chamber that had the feeling of long vacancy. The rest of the house, the parlor and dining room, were obviously in use and Vidal found evidence, clothes in a wardrobe, toilet articles on a dressing table in one of the bedrooms that Albertus lived there.

  He looked in the servant's mind, somewhat more carefully than in the past, remembering that he had almost killed the creature and that if he did so he would have to rework another mortal. But he did not need to delve deep to discover Albertus's habits of coming and going. Generally Albertus was absent all day and returned to the house short
ly before dark. Vidal told the servant to bid Albertus wait for "his master" and went back up the stairs.

  He was about to Gate Underhill when it occurred to him that he was totally ignorant of current events in the mortal world, except for what Aurilia had told him and what Albertus might say. Since he did not trust either of them, he decided to have dinner out at a popular inn and see what news he could gather.

  Standing before the cheval glass in what was called Otstargi's bedchamber, although he never slept in it, Vidal took on the guise of a prosperous merchant. He did not want to be recognized as Otstargi so he was careful to make his round pupilled eyes blue and his hair a nondescript brown. A bland expression completed a friendly and harmless appearance.

  Fortunately, staid merchant garb did not change the way the garments of lordlings who followed fashion did. Vidal felt safe garbing himself in the same kind of clothes Otstargi had last worn. He uttered an obscenity as the suit formed on him; he had forgotten how much the effort to dress himself here in the mortal world would drain his well of power. Nonetheless, he sacrificed more power to ken coins for his purse.

  He would not forget again, Vidal told himself, that he could not renew his power in the mortal world. For now, however, he did not expect to need to do any more magic, and since he had already made the effort, he went out.