This Scepter'd Isle Read online

  "Cannibals or not, they wanted to eat me," Harry replied, indignation overriding fear. "That girl said I was sweet and tender!"

  Although actually he wasn't at all sure about it—the dark stains on the wraith's tatters could easily have been blood—Denoriel said, "No. I don't think they wanted to eat our flesh. What they were hungry for was the power I put into the spell on your cloak and the power that is part of your life force and mine."

  There was no need to mention that the way the attackers would have got their life force would have been to tear them apart in the most painful way possible. The threat—at least from those in Wormegay Hold—was gone now, and there was no need to frighten a child. Denoriel himself was not really horrified; the draining of life force by the Unseleighe was a fact too long known and recognized to hold his mind. What he kept thinking of was the clarity of the air in Wormegay; it stank, but there was no mist . . . There was no mist of power!

  "I didn't realize it at first," Denoriel said slowly, "but Wormegay is completely empty of power."

  "How can you tell?" Harry asked, sounding eager and interested. "You said you put a shield on my cloak, but there's nothing there that I can see or feel."

  "That's because you don't work with magic." Denoriel smiled at him, and in case he couldn't see the expression in the thick fog, he bent down and kissed the boy's hair. "That's a good thing, Harry. Mortal mages are only trouble for themselves and everyone else."

  "Well . . . maybe." The boy glanced back over his shoulder at where the Gate might be; they were sitting not far from it. "Maybe we should move father away from here. In case a few of those things decide to follow us?"

  "Follow?" Denoriel repeated tensing, but then he shook his head. "None will follow us. If anything in Wormegay Hold could use the Gate to get out, that creature would have done so already. They're all trapped in there, so stripped of power that the Gate doesn't recognize them as magical."

  That was very strange. Denoriel had never heard of anyplace Underhill that did not have a flood of ambient power. Oh, some places had more and some less; the air and substance in some was more malleable than in others. Most of the great realms like Logres and Avalon were specially rich . . . but a domain that sucked the power out of those in it? Denoriel had never heard of such, and felt that he should warn the Magus Majors of the Seleighe Court. Harry tugged his hand, drawing his attention.

  "I'm not magical and I got through," he said.

  "You were holding on to me."

  Denoriel shuddered, suddenly remembering how drained he had been; how he had almost fallen when the Gate drank power from him. He realized then that even the Gate at Wormegay was not powered; it needed to draw power from anyone who wanted to use it. Denoriel restrained another shudder.

  Had he been a little more empty, perhaps they would have been trapped in Wormegay Hold. And Miralys—the Hold had been drinking from Miralys as if he were an open well. Yes, the magi had to be warned with a particular caution for elvensteeds. Denoriel could feel Harry looking around, and after another moment the boy spoke.

  "This fog isn't clearing at all. We'll have to think of a way not to go around in circles when we start to move."

  "I think I'll try to find out where this Gate goes before we set out across an Unformed domain."

  After a little silence Harry said, "I'm not sure I want to travel by Gate again if that's what it's going to be like each time. I didn't have my knife out and I was holding the cloak closed over my cross, so I don't think it was my fault this time."

  "No, it wasn't, Harry. It was mine." He sighed. "I wasn't strong enough to hold to the thought of where I wanted to go, and now we're here . . . and might as well be on the other side of the world."

  "This is not such a bad place, Lord Denno," the boy said comfortingly. "But it surely is the worst fog I've ever seen. London suffers from dreadful fogs sometimes, but I don't think this thick. What did you do wrong?"

  Denoriel rubbed one temple; his head was starting to ache again—or else, now that he wasn't fighting for their lives, he had finally noticed the ache. "The Gate is what is called an open Gate. That is, if a Sidhe just thinks hard about where he or she wants to go, the Gate will take them there . . . if there's a terminus there. The reason we were stuck in the Gate so long was that I didn't remember about open Gates right away. There are so few Gates like that any more—they're really hard to make—that I was just waiting for the Gate to take us wherever it went. I wasn't thinking about any place in particular that I wanted to go."

  There was a momentary silence and then Harry said, "And this was the place you wanted to go? Why?"

  The elvensteed stamped and snorted. Denoriel said, "Not me. Miralys? Was it you?"

  A silken nose touched his cheek then prodded more firmly, as if to show that the elvensteed's strength had returned. His certainly had, Denoriel realized. And then he understood. The flow of power, and probably of whatever energy the elvensteeds used, was most plentiful—one might even call it overwhelming—in the chaos lands. His spell had restored him completely in moments; likely the same was true for whatever means powered the elvensteeds.

  "The horse brought us here?"

  "Miralys isn't a horse any more than I am a man," Denoriel said. "He is an elvensteed. Although I have never heard him speak to me, I am sure he could if he wanted to. And he is as clever—if not more clever—and far more powerful than any man and most Sidhe. In fact, Miralys might be able to take us where I want to go without the Gate."

  Miralys backed away a little and Denoriel sighed. "Either he can't or he isn't yet strong enough to do that," he said to Harry. "Stay here. Don't move off that saddle; it's human made and I can sense it even in the fog. I'm going up to look at the Gate more closely. Maybe—"

  "There's something coming, Lord Denno!"

  Denoriel jumped to his feet and drew his sword. A head poked through the fog, which thinned around it. It was an adorable head, with bright dark eyes peering through curled white wool, and crowned with tiny horns. Denoriel watched tensely as the fog thinned further, as green grass appeared below the feet and around the little creature, which opened its mouth—Denoriel lifted his sword to center on it. But no teeth showed . . . and it said, "Baa baa."

  "It's a lamb," Harry said, also on his feet.

  "It looks like a lamb."

  Denoriel had not sheathed his sword. The mist was clearing steadily, the grass spreading. Trees began to appear in the distance. Miralys moved forward and stepped onto the grass. To Denoriel's relief, the elvensteed had regained his solidity, and his coat was its normal, shining dappled silver.

  Miralys sniffed the lamb. It uttered a startled baa and shied away, but didn't run. A moment later it had arched its back and stiffened its legs and came bouncing back toward Miralys. Harry laughed aloud and Denoriel's sword dropped. The gait was so typical of the young—sheep, goats, deer, cattle, horses—all bounced on stiff legs in playful approach. Finally it bounced right into Miralys and butted him with its tiny horns.

  Denoriel's sword came up again, but Miralys only snorted at the lamb and lowered his head to the grass to graze. Denoriel bit his lip. The lamb danced off to join other sheep, which had appeared in the near distance. The scene could have been lifted out of any rich grazing meadow in England, except there was no shepherd. Could Miralys have been bespelled by stepping into the scene?

  He lifted a foot to follow the elvensteed and then put it down. If he, too, were bespelled, what would Harry do?

  "Harry, just step out into the grass. Don't walk far away. Stay about where we saw the lamb."

  The boy glanced at him, suddenly smiled, and stepped onto the grass. He walked a little way toward Miralys, put his hand on the elvensteed's shoulder. The lamb—or another lamb—jump-hopped over and baa'd; Harry touched its head and it shied away. Miralys lifted his head. Harry turned toward Denoriel, walked back, and stepped out of the scene to the Sidhe's side.

  "I think it's just a meadow with sheep. Miralys seemed just as
usual, and the lamb felt like a lamb. It didn't try to bite me. Do you think it could all have been there all along and we just didn't notice because of the mist?"

  "I don't know," Denoriel said.

  The truth was that he didn't think so. He believed their presence had either triggered the creation or carried it from wherever it usually manifested to this area. He examined Harry with mage sight, but could see nothing beyond the blinding glare of the shield on the cloak. The boy's face and hands seemed normal; no sign of magic flickered on them.

  "I guess it's my turn," he said, and stepped into the shepherd's paradise.

  The words had come unbidden to his mind, but now that they had, he recognized that what was all around him was exactly and precisely that—a shepherd's paradise. He listened and looked with every sense he had—and again cursed himself for being so young, so foolish, so arrogant as to turn his back on mage training. He could sense nothing inimical at all. There was even a sense of peace pervading the scene, but not an enforced peace. However, Denoriel knew he might be unable to sense something slow and subtle that any visitor might carry away with him.

  If so they had all been infected already. Miralys was grazing steadily. Harry had run ahead toward four or five lambs playing together. Denoriel sighed and sat down on a convenient—too convenient?—fallen log. The bark had been cleaned and the trunk hollowed slightly to make a seat. He tried to look totally relaxed and unaware, even closed his eyes for a while. Nothing happened.

  The mist had cleared off so completely that one could see a blue sky above, dotted with natural-seeming clouds that moved. It all looked so real that Denoriel felt anxious. Could they have been cast out into the mortal world? Then he remembered the mist so dense the place could only be part of the Unformed lands. He glanced up again.

  Just now a cloud was obscuring the sun, but it passed. Denoriel's pupils closed to slits, and he needed that protection; however this was not the real sun of the mortal world. He could look right into it.

  Safe. This was a safe place. Denoriel let his muscles loosen. They would stay a while—he could always make up the time, and perhaps he would not need to; time ran slower Underhill—until they had recovered from the shocks of the blasted Gate and Wormegay Hold.

  Harry was playing among the lambs as he had probably never been allowed to play before. The little creatures, accustomed to him now, allowed him to embrace them. Then, impatient of restraint as all young creatures are, butted him away. Sometimes two or three vied for his attention and they all went down in a tangle.

  Denoriel called him, and he came at once, flushed and bright-eyed, but he begged to stay a little longer, and Denoriel could not find it in his heart to deny him his joy. Poor Harry had so little lighthearted joy. So they stayed, recovering from the shocks they had had, until the artificial sun was actually dropping in the west. Denoriel thought it probably moved faster than the real sun did, but not fast enough to disturb anyone accustomed to the mortal world.

  Finally—to Denoriel's relief—Harry returned to his side on his own, breathless and rather grubby. Denoriel thought that his costly silk-lined cloak could never be restored, but it was a small price to pay for the boy's pleasure.

  "Lord Denno, is there anything to eat here?" Harry asked, making clear the reason for abandoning his play. "It's been a long time since the cortege stopped for a nuncheon."

  "Miralys," Denoriel called, his throat tightening as he realized he had not seen the elvensteed for some time. However, before his anxiety could rise any further, Miralys was there, as beautiful and vibrant as he had ever been. "Shall we try the Gate, Miralys, or will you leap us across to Logres?"

  For answer a saddle formed on the elvensteed's back. A double saddle, really, for there was room for Harry just behind the pommel. About to mount, Denoriel remembered the mortal-world saddle. He was less anxious about leaving that here. He could not believe the mage who had constructed this shepherd's paradise would mind their having used it for a little time or trace them through the saddle to do them harm.

  Still, the thing was mortal-made, not elven kenned; Denoriel remembered how Gilfaethwy insisted on mortal-world artifacts untouched by elven influence. Perhaps the saddle would be worth something to someone. Denoriel ran back to the Gate to retrieve it and heaved it over Miralys's croup, where linen bands suddenly appeared to fasten it.

  He mounted, grasped Harry's hands and pulled him up. The boy had scarcely swung his leg over Miralys when they were plunged into an icy darkness that gave way almost instantaneously to the gorgeous, other-worldly garden outside the palace of Llachar Lle. Miralys carefully trod the narrow path that skirted a quiet pond surrounded by moonflowers and nightlillies. The long, silver leaves of Underhill's willows trailed over them, a welcoming caress.

  Beyond the pond the path widened and then debouched onto a close-cropped lawn. Harry gaped upward at the shining, unveined, white marble walls of the palace, rising two stories to a battlemented wall above the huge bronze doors. To either side of the central building were slender round towers, showing many wide windows above the second floor. Pennons flapped from each tower.

  Denoriel also stared upward. Oberon and Titania? Here? Why? Did the king and queen know he had been involved in the destruction of a Gate? Or were they here to chastise him because he had apparently abducted a mortal boy of great importance? And he had allowed Harry to see and understand far too much of Underhill.

  "Those towers," Harry said with an odd note of disapproval in his voice instead of the wonder Denoriel had expected, "a cannon would take them down in an hour. Even a trenchbut . . ."

  "We don't have cannon Underhill," Denoriel said, but a cold chill ran up his back.

  It was true that the Unseleighe were unlikely to assault a palace, but if those of the mortal world were sufficiently frightened or angered . . . or driven by greed . . .

  The mortals had mages. A human mage, particularly one not too particular about how he gathered his power, could open a portal into Underhill, could bring in those terrible brass cannon, could turn Llachar Lle to rubble, to less than rubble, in an hour.

  He shook off the horrifying vision and gestured for Harry to dismount and follow him.

  The mortals had a saying: Sufficient unto the day are the troubles thereof. And if the presence of the High King and his Queen was anything to go by, he had troubles enough for now.

  CHAPTER 20

  FitzRoy had some initial nervousness about sleeping alone in a room—he had never been without a nurse or, now, his valet Shandy Dunstan on a truckle bed by his side. Denoriel solved the problem by pointing out that there were many servants listening for his smallest wish, and proving it by telling Harry to ask for anything he wanted . . . within reason.

  "What's not within reason?" the boy asked at once.

  "Twenty naked dancing girls," Denoriel replied and then blushed. The bed brought only one thing to his mind.

  FitzRoy blinked. "What would I want with twenty?"

  Blushing harder, Denoriel said, "You're a naughty boy! What would you want with one?"

  The boy tried to swagger; the effect was enough to make Denoriel suppress a grin. "Don't know, but I'd like to find out."

  Denoriel laughed. "Not tonight. You're too sleepy. Take it from someone who does know. Being too tired takes the fun out of it. No. Ask for a glass of water or more cider or a sweet."

  He then went out of the room. After a little while, he heard a giggle and, eyes wide, rushed back in. There was, to his relief, no dancing girl, but Harry did have a large glass of water and what looked like marchpane sweets in a golden dish on the table beside the bed. In addition, he was attired in a clean, white nightshirt and a small nightcap.

  He sighed sleepily when Denoriel came in and said, "You're right, Lord Denno. Your servants are paying close attention to me. But it is passing strange to have my clothes taken off and a nightshirt put on when I can't see what's doing it."

  "As long as it was done right," Denoriel said, coming to t
he bed. "I'm glad they didn't have any trouble with your cross." He eyed the pouch in which the cross was concealed, but the shield spell over the enshrouding silk seemed strong and solid. Then he bent down and kissed the boy on the forehead. "Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?"

  There was no need to ask. Harry's eyes were already closed and his breathing deepening. Denoriel stood by the bed for a few moments longer, mentally commanded the servants not only to serve but to watch and protect, and left the apartment.

  As he crossed the great corridor of Llachar Lle, he felt a Thought brush him—a Thought he knew could rip away all his protections, could seize and rend him soul and body if it desired—and his step hesitated. A moment later the touch was withdrawn. Denoriel breathed again and hurried out. Miralys was waiting, trembling, at the foot of the steps.

  When they arrived this time, Denoriel did not even need to speak to whatever guarded the Academicia. Magus Major Gilfaethwy was waiting at a doorway and bellowed at him before he had even dismounted.

  "You meddled with my Gates! How dare you! You asked for simple Gates that would take you from one place to another. You tried to cheat me by changing the patterns!"

  With a considerable effort, Denoriel got control of his jaw, which had been hanging open in shock. He had no idea that Gilfaethwy could have known of the collapse of the Gate near Sheriff Hutton—or how he could have learned of it so soon.

  "I did not meddle apurpose, magus, I swear to you," he said as soon as he was able. "I was fleeing an Unseleighe attack, and the child who was the intended victim of that attack was wearing a cold iron cross, which seems to have disrupted the Gate."

  The mage scowled, and Denoriel wondered if he was about to find out what flies tasted like. "That, too, I felt Denoriel Siencyn Macreth Silverhair. But if you had not first meddled with the Gate, it would not have failed so catastrophically, and I would not have nearly been rendered witless and useless."

  "I am so very sorry, magus, but I didn't do it!" Denoriel protested, dismounting and approaching the fuming mage. "I swear I didn't. I don't know how, and there wasn't any other place I wanted the Gate to go."