This Scepter'd Isle Page 3

  When they came upon it, though, it was a complete surprise.

  On the rare occasions Denoriel had thought about the mirror in connection with his sister, he had wondered idly whether it would be silvered glass or blackest obsidian? A still pool, rimmed with glowing precious stones? A giant ball of flawless crystal?

  It was none of these things.

  It was, however, set in the middle of a depression in the earth, a tiny bowl of a valley, carpeted with millions of minute flowers. They nestled among leaves no bigger than seed-pearls, which gave off a sweet, spicy scent as he trod on them. In the center of the bowl was a pedestal of alabaster; on the pedestal stood a silver frame, enclosing what appeared to be an enormous lens of crystal.

  Standing beside the lens were three elven women Denoriel didn't recognize. One, like Aleneil, was gowned in the height of current mortal fashion, though her chosen colors were sapphire and sky-blue. One wore little more than draped silk gauze, pinned in the style of ancient Greece at the shoulder with bronze brooches and held to her waist with a matching belt. The third, gowned in a style not seen since Atlantis disappeared beneath the sea, wore silks in pastel colors that clung to her body, embroidered all over with vines and leaves, with trailing sleeves and a train that covered the tiny flowers for yards behind her. All three were blond, of course, for Seleighe Sidhe favored blond hair, but the first had hair like a ruddy sunset, the second like a field of ripe corn, and the third, like Aleneil, pale as moonlight.

  "My teachers," Aleneil said simply. "Now come and look into the Mirror."

  He stood where she directed, and she beside him. The three other ladies raised their hands, and a glow of power lifted about the crystal lens.

  "Here is the nexus of our future," said the one in the dress of ancient Greece, and a mist seemed to pass over the surface of the lens. A moment later, the surface cleared, but within it, Denoriel saw the image of a human infant, red-haired and scowling, swaddled in fine, embroidered linen and lace . . . and glowing with power. The babe was being held by a figure that Denoriel recognized—the mortal king of England, Henry, who was the eighth of that name.

  "And here are glimpses of the future when this child comes to reign in Great Harry's stead," said the lady garbed as a mortal of that court. The lens misted again, and scene after scene played out briefly before him—briefly, but enough to show him a future very bright for the mortals of England, a flowering of art, music, and letters, of freedom of thought and deed, of exploration and bravery. Oh, there were problems—twice, if Denoriel read the signs aright—Spain sent a great fleet against England, only to be repulsed at minimal cost. But the troubles were weathered, the difficulties overcome, and the result was nearly an age of gold.

  "And this—" said the lady of the ancient ways, "is what will come to pass if that child does not reign."

  Fires . . .

  Image after image crowded the lens, and even Denoriel, not unaccustomed to pain and terror, winced away from the appalling scenes. Black-robed Christian priests, grim-faced and implacable, brought scores, hundreds of victims to the Question, torturing their bodies until they would confess to anything, then burning what was left in front of silent onlookers. Others, whose intellects burned as brightly as the flames, did not need to be tortured; they confessed their sins of difference defiantly, and were burned. In place of a flowering of art and science, came a blight. Darkness fell over the land, pressed there by the heavy, iron hand of Spain and the Inquisition.

  Then the lens cleared, and the ladies stood quietly, watching him. "Interesting," he said at last, forcing his breathing to be steady and even and swallowing the constriction in his throat. "But I fail to see what relevance this has to us."

  It was the last of the ladies to speak who addressed him, her brows raised, her voice patient, as if she addressed a particularly stupid child. "What happens to them has always been relevant to us, Denoriel. Britain is bound to Logres, and Logres to Britain; it has always been so, and will always be. Think! Have you never heard of Elfhame Alhambra, of Elfhame Eldorado, and what became of them when the hounds of the Inquisition were set loose upon the land of Spain?"

  He stiffened; no elf liked to be reminded of the darkened, deserted halls of the great palace of Alhambra, of the silent gardens of Eldorado, both haunted by things it was better not to meet. If anyone had told him why the elves had fled those elfhames, it had not stuck with him. But the word had been enough to give him the clue . . . Inquisition.

  The lady of the Greek peplos stared at him in rebuke. "If dark times come upon the mortals of Britannia, they will come to us. Death and cruelty feed our Unseleighe kin, as creativity and joy feed us. If that comes to Britain at the hands of the Inquisition—the gates to Logres will be open to the Unseleighe Underhill."

  Her eyes flashed angrily at him, and he stepped back a pace, startled. "Your pardon, lady," he murmured. "I did not know—"

  She sniffed.

  "But lady," he continued rather plaintively, "what has this to do with me?"

  The lady in modern court dress answered him. "Imprimus, because the visions came to your sister, not to us. That suggests that, despite her youth and lesser experience, she is to have some part to play in this. Secundus, when my fellows and I attempted to scry further clues, we could see only you—you, and the red-haired child, together—in the visions of a golden future. So it seems that you, Sir Denoriel, are the key to all of this."

  This did something more than merely take Denoriel aback; it shocked him to the core. He stood with eyes wide and mouth inelegantly agape, his gaze flicking from one to the other. However, it was Aleneil who came to him, and put her hand gently on his arm. He met her eyes eagerly, but she offered no escape.

  "Brother, I am sure they are right. In every way, they are right. You are the key to all of this; the red-haired child of Great Harry of England must live, and thrive, and grow up to rule. You must go to it in the mortal world, and become its protector." Her emerald eyes held his.

  "But I am a warrior, not a nursemaid—" he said, feebly.

  "And perhaps it is a warrior that will be needed," the eldest of the ladies said, impatience and a touch of scorn on her lovely features. "In any case, you have no choice, Sir Knight. We are sworn to work for the good of High King Oberon and Elfhame Logres. We, his FarSeers, can and will order you to this task, if we must."

  "That will hardly be necessary," he said coldly, drawing himself up and gathering his dignity. "I, too, am sworn to protect and defend my king and this realm. I will do what I must."

  And with that, he turned on his heel and left, but he burned within. And not even Aleneil followed him.

  CHAPTER 2

  "I am a warrior, not a nursemaid."

  The words rang heavy with irony in his memory as Denoriel regarded the child before him. It was very easy to see who the boy's parents were; the sweetness of the mother's temper was mingled with the mulishness of the father's. Even without Great Harry's red hair, it would be obvious to whom the boy owed that temper, too. But what the boy had to say rather surprised him.

  "The very last thing I want is to be king," the boy said.

  "King!" Denoriel echoed, gazing down at the child, who gazed fearlessly back at him.

  That could have been a taught response, but the liosalfar did not think so. Truth was in the large eyes and the earnest expression. But surely this was not the red-haired infant of his sister's vision. Then a chill slowed his heart. Could this boy be the other ruler, the ruler who would bring the Inquisition to England? No. Impossible.

  He was already very fond of this child, and had been drawn strongly to him from their first meeting. He had made some slight excuse to accompany one of the mortal friends he had cultivated on a ride to Windsor Palace. Sir George Boleyn had business with the duke of Norfolk, whom Denoriel knew had Henry FitzRoy, the natural son of the king, in his care. Boleyn was glad of the company, for it was a long ride from London to Windsor, and had not bothered to question Denoriel's reasons. D
enoriel was fulfilling his duty to meet and measure all of King Henry's children.

  This boy, Denoriel was sure had never been that red-haired babe. He was not even overflowing with those human characteristics that fascinated the Fair Folk. Henry FitzRoy had no wit, no brilliance, no great inventiveness, none of the things that marked the infant prodigy. He was one thing only, an innocent, and his goodness shone through him like a candle through a horn lantern. That would be the mother's contribution, Bessy Blount, who seemingly had not an enemy in the world. No small feat, in Great Harry's court.

  Good and innocent. Denoriel's lips almost curled into a sneer. For good or ill, he was a warrior, not a nursemaid. He should be mounted behind Koronos, driving suitable victims to their well-deserved deaths, reminding the humans that the Fair Folk were. For a moment he burned with the desire for the Hunt—then, he sighed. No matter how much he thrilled to the Hunt, never, ever, would he take pleasure in the sacrifice of victims like Henry FitzRoy. The Wild Hunt of the Seleighe Court took down those who would not be missed; those who—although their own families and neighbors might mouth horror—were a relief to be rid of. So two purposes were accomplished: Underhill continued to waken fear and respect but no one was ever angry enough to seek an open confrontation.

  "Because your father is king, does it follow that you should wish to be?" Denoriel said, and suddenly found himself squatting down so that he would be on more equal terms with the child, not looming over him; he suspected that far too many loomed over Henry FitzRoy threatening or demanding.

  "Yes, but luckily I am not the son of the queen," FitzRoy said.

  He spoke very softly, flicking a glance over his shoulder to be sure that no one was close enough to overhear, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. Denoriel could not help but grin in response. For the first time since he had met the child he felt there was something more in him than simplicity and goodness. Then he reproached himself. What did he expect from a six-year-old?

  "What do you mean 'luckily'?" he asked, still grinning.

  The boy giggled. "If I were the son of the queen, I would have to be king." Suddenly the smile disappeared. He sighed, his expression too adult for the rounded baby face. "I still hope to be spared that."

  Denoriel became aware that the guards who were waiting at the gate of this secluded part of the gardens of Windsor Castle had begun to stir uneasily. He realized that, squatting as he was, the guards could see neither FitzRoy or him. The boy had not yet noticed the guards' uneasiness, but Denoriel's hearing was particularly keen. He stood up.

  "I think we had better stroll about or throw your ball or something," he said. "Your guards must be wondering why we are so still."

  "Guards," the boy repeated, and sighed again. "Before I suddenly became a Knight of the Garter, and Duke of Richmond and Somerset, and Earl of Nottingham I could play in the garden any way I liked. Oh, my nurse or the tutor came with me. But usually they just sat on a bench. He read; she did her needlework. Now I have guards telling me not to go too far, not to lean over the pond, not to climb a tree . . ."

  "They are concerned for your safety," Denoriel said, as he reached down and took FitzRoy's hand. "You cannot blame them. It is their duty to protect you."

  "I know." The child allowed his hand to lie in Denoriel's and then curled it confidingly around one of the Sidhe's long fingers. "Still, it is irksome to have them always stepping on my shadow. The only time I am free of them is when . . ."

  Denoriel made suitable sounds of sympathy and encouragement but he only half heard what the boy was saying. He was wondering again what he was doing here. FitzRoy seemed over- rather than under-protected. He wished the FarSeers could have been more specific about FitzRoy's role in the future. Why did he need to be involved with this child . . . although now he liked the boy so well he would miss visits with him.

  Denoriel recalled how furious he had been when he was first told of his role as nursemaid. Swallowing anger as best he could—one did not vent a private frustration on a FarSeer—he had returned to where he had left his elvensteed when he arrived in Elfhame Avalon.

  Miralys had been waiting near the Gate giving passage to Elfhame Logres, where Denoriel had a lavish apartment in the palace. Their majesties, King Oberon and Queen Titania, only occasionally graced Llachar Lle with their presence; they stayed when they wished to join the Hunt or settle some dispute that pertained particularly to Logres, but they lived mostly in Elfhame Avalon.

  Denoriel did not need to speak or guide the elvensteed. Miralys stepped delicately up on the mosaic under the silver trees and was at the heart of the eight-pointed star when he was barely in the saddle. With his mind on his distasteful duty, Denoriel hardly felt the disorientation of passing through the gate and was only minimally aware of the steed trotting through Logres. When Miralys stopped, Denoriel dismounted. He did not look to see where he was; all he did was rub his face gratefully against the cheek of his elvensteed, who lipped his hair fondly and moved away.

  Sighing, Denoriel turned to climb the broad marble steps to the wide portico. He did not try to enter by the huge brazen doors that were opened only to admit the king and queen. Beside them, deep inset into the thick wall of the palace, was a man-sized door, always open. As he passed he felt the slippery, icy feel of the recognition spell. Had he not been approved, an invisible wall would have formed before him, and if he had not retreated swiftly enough, that cold welcome would have changed to one hot enough to broil the flesh off his bones.

  The corridor he faced when he entered, though short, was broad enough to permit passage to anything the great doors could admit. There had been times when that space was necessary, as when the Cern Abbas giant had come to complain that his worshipers were not being given free passage through the Gates of Underhill. Mythical beings were not common even Underhill but it was the expression on Oberon's face that made the visit memorable. Denoriel's own taut features relaxed a trifle as he recalled the sight of the enormous naked being, club in hand, with, even for his size, exaggerated private parts.

  At the end of that broad corridor was another pair of closed doors, these of marvelously worked silver depicting scenes of the founding of Elfhame Logres; the doors opened onto the throne room of the king and queen. Denoriel did not even glance at them but turned right into a cross-corridor that looked narrow. That, however, was only in comparison with the grand scale of the center passage.

  Once in, the cross-corridor was a comfortable size, the walls glowing softly in opalescent mother-of-pearl colors broken regularly by doors. These were as fanciful in color, design, and composition as the maker of the private domain behind them wished . . . or could manage.

  Denoriel's door was an amusing trap. It looked like an open way into the outdoors, showing a flower-starred meadow with an elegant manor and some trees in the distance. Many an uninvited guest had ended with a sore nose and forehead from trying to walk through. To any not sealed to it, the doorway was as solid as a painting on stone.

  Denoriel passed through and stopped dead. The small antechamber opened left into a spacious dining area with a huge window that looked out onto the same meadow scene, except that the manor and the woods, dark and tangled, were much closer. To the right a broad arch showed a comfortable living space. The floor was covered with glowing rugs, thick and soft. Chairs covered in spider-silk formed two groups around small marble tables; other chairs flanked a beautifully carved lounge, also upholstered in dark red spider-silk, which faced a handsome white marble fireplace.

  The witch-lights in the chamber were all glowing, but they would have lit as soon as Denoriel passed the door. The give-away that his apartment was not empty was the small but brilliant fire leaping behind a silver screen in the hearth.

  For one heart-stopping moment Denoriel could not remember whether he had forgotten to seal his doorway against one of his past mistresses, and then he saw the little, lithe orange-red creature cavorting and dancing in the flames. His breath whooshed out.

  "
Mwynwen," he said, walking forward as a tall, slender woman rose from the lounge that faced the fireplace.

  He was pleased, flattered even. Mwynwen was no easy-come, easy-go light of love. She favored few males. He had been honored when she asked him into her apartment, delighted that she seemed to find his conversation engaging, and so surprised—and awed—when she invited him into her bed that he had been almost unable to perform.

  Only almost. He suspected Mwynwen could, if she desired, stimulate a corpse. He had staggered home in the dawn and eagerly given her image to his door, the scent of her, the look of her, the essence of her magic, although he had never expected that she would come. And she never had come to him before, although they continued to be lovers.

  "You were so angry," she said, holding out a hand.

  He took her hand, his feelings split in two. He was thrilled that Mwynwen was so attuned to him that she had felt his anger across the Elfhame, for Mwynwen, a Healer, unlike most of the inhabitants of Llachar Lle, lived in a separate manor in the silver woods beyond the palace. At the same time her mention of his anger renewed it. Irritation, pique over the task set him, but more than that, a smoldering rage that he should be accounted of so little worth as to be set to be a puling infant's nursery-guard leapt up in him again, but he could not bear to be petty in Mwynwen's eyes and held his tongue.

  "You are angry again," she said, great eyes growing greater with anxiety, "with me?"

  "No! Not with you. Not ever with you," Denoriel said.

  She folded her hand around his and drew him closer. "Then at whom?"

  "Not whom either," he replied, beginning to smile a little. "One cannot be angry at a FarSeer. What they See is no blame to them. They do not make the future, only say what it might be."