This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  Not that there was even the smallest hint of carelessness or laziness. Every stone was a perfect stone, every flower a perfect flower, but like those in the mortal world they were uneven, of different textures, colors, and sizes. Why should she do that when it would have been even less effort to make them all the same or of complementary shapes and colors that fit together in ordered masses to soothe the eye? He sighed. Rhoslyn was Rhoslyn.

  Even the path meandered, going off toward one side of the domain under overarching shade trees and then wandering the other way, out into the undappled light of the silver sky where a wide vista of lawn spread to display Rhoslyn's castle. Pasgen sighed again. The castle was not large, not even grand, but it was right out of a mortal's romance, with turrets and pennons, even with a drawbridge over a moat. At least only black swans floated on the water.

  The bridge was down and Pasgen rode across. At the open gate one of Rhoslyn's servants was waiting to take Torgan. The construct looked like a wisp of a girl, too large-eyed, with long, thin hands that seemed hardly able to clutch the reins. But those fingers, thin as they were, could cut like razors, not only through flesh but through bone.

  Once when Rhoslyn had brought a girl servant with her to a meeting where Vidal Dhu had promised physical rewards that must be carried away, an ogre had tried to seize the girl. The ogre had been torn apart, swiftly and efficiently. The servant had not lingered over the dismemberment to enjoy the ogre's pain, Pasgen remembered, but in general Rhoslyn's servants were more expressive than he would permit in his own constructs, readily speaking, laughing, and crying.

  In fact, the girl smiled at him and said shyly, "How nice to see you here again, Lord Pasgen. Please go right in. Lady Rhoslyn is aware of your arrival."

  Pasgen did not reply. He knew that if he had not been recognized and approved, the construct would have seized him. But to his surprise, the seeming girl actually looked hurt when he ignored it. Was Rhoslyn going too far in animating her constructs? Perhaps, but if she was practicing that kind of animation, it would be very useful in making the changeling.

  He was just turning into a very cozy parlor when Rhoslyn came down the stairs. She gestured him quickly further into the room and closed the door behind him. Pasgen felt a sealing spell and raised his brows at her.

  "Mother's here," she said, eyes bright with tears. "Vidal gave her something again. I don't know what it was this time, but she's a right mess."

  A "right mess" was an understatement; Rhoslyn had been nursing her mother for the better part of the day, and cursing herself for not having the skills of a Healer. For a long moment Pasgen made no response, but Rhoslyn could see the pulse beating in his throat. He always pretended a greater indifference to their mother than she did, but Rhoslyn was sure he cared for Llanelli deeply, perhaps more deeply than she.

  Then he said softly, "I am not yet strong enough."

  "No." Rhoslyn put a hand on his arm. "Even together we could not destroy him."

  Pasgen shook his head. "That we might accomplish if we put our minds and strengths to it, but I could not hold the domain together."

  It was Rhoslyn's turn to be frozen into stillness. She had not sensed her brother's ambition previously . . . or she had denied it to herself. "Would you want to?" she breathed. "Would you want to rule the ogres and goblins and hags?"

  "Would you want to set them loose without any control? Or see them in the hands of someone weaker and more vicious than Vidal Dhu?" His tone was savage, however, she knew it was not aimed at her but at their "guardian" and master.

  Again Rhoslyn was silenced, but she reached out and put her hand on Pasgen's arm. She had not understood his sense of responsibility. She had not even thought of anything beyond the chance of being free of Vidal Dhu—and really, that was unlike her. What Vidal was doing to their mother had shaken her. She took a deep breath.

  "You are right, of course, and this is no time to be at odds with our master. We must make sure that Princess Mary comes to the throne, but is there anything we can do for mother?"

  "What do you want me to do?" Pasgen asked, his voice grating. "I can get enough of that disgusting drug to send her into Dreaming—"

  "No!" Rhoslyn cried. "That would be forever. I . . . I don't want to lose her. When she's free of it, she is of great use to me. I will see her through this recovery as I have in the past. At least she has enough sense to come to me when she is overcome by craving."

  "Yes, but you won't have time to attend to mother just now," he said, dismissively. "I'll take her to her own place and care for her. I've done it before."

  Rhoslyn looked at him with anger and distrust. "The last time you nearly let her go into Dreaming. No. There's nothing so important—"

  "That was a mistake." Now that he saw she was angry, he softened his own attitude a trifle. "I meant her no harm. I thought it would be kinder to wean her away from the stuff slowly. I know better now."

  She sniffed, and gave him a warning look.

  But he was too full of his own matter to pay much attention to her warnings. "What's more important is that I'm going to bring to you the two men who were sent to kill FitzRoy. Both of them saw him. One of them even touched him. You can wring out of them everything you will need to know to make a changeling."

  Rhoslyn looked down at her fingers and deliberately stopped them from knotting and unknotting. Her lips thinned. She wanted to say that the making of the changeling could wait, but she knew the men's memories would fade with time. Still, the need to care for Llanelli and her distaste for what it would cost to extract memory in such detail drove her to protest.

  "I don't need to pick over two humans' dirty minds to build a changeling," she said. "Surely you can find a sprite or some kind or a brownie that could give me a visual image—"

  He shook his head firmly. "That will not serve in this case. Unfortunately a likeness on a mindless construct will not be sufficient. The person who saved FitzRoy from being drowned was a Lord Denno. He is my height, white-blond hair, green eyes, to humans he seems incredibly strong, for he fought off two skilled swordsmen. Who do you think that is?"

  "Denoriel!" Rhoslyn spat, flushing in annoyance. Always it was the other twins! Was she never to be free of them? "You are right. He would not be fooled by a simple construct for five minutes, and he would know how to make it fall to pieces, which would prove magic to be at the core of FitzRoy's disappearance." She hesitated and then asked, "Is Perez known to be a magician?"

  She actually heard her brother's teeth grinding in anger. "I'm afraid so. The man is a fool and must whisper about his powers."

  "Then if FitzRoy's disappearance is known to be connected to magic, the Spanish would be blamed." Rhoslyn sighed. "But no matter how good my changeling, Denoriel will 'smell' the magic in it."

  As was often the case, Pasgen was ahead of her. "Yes, but he will take time to try to discover whether FitzRoy has been bespelled before he begins to use harsher magic. What will turn a construct to dust will cause considerable pain to a mortal. If the changeling acts and speaks like FitzRoy, we may have days, even weeks, to hide the child."

  "Very well," Rhoslyn said wearily, "take Mother back to her own domain, but I will send two of my servants to be with her. You will have to destroy the constructs that are serving her now. I am sure they have been corrupted; Vidal has probably made them into his creatures, and it is no longer safe to allow them to continue in her service. Then you can bring the men to the Unformed place where I made the not-horses. There is no direct Gate to my domain from there, and I found the mists rich and ready for development."

  CHAPTER 8

  The morning after the attack on FitzRoy, not too early but at a time carefully calculated to be before Norfolk would be ready to begin the business of the day, Denoriel rode up to Windsor Castle from the west rather than the east. This time he stopped at the main gate and asked if the duke of Norfolk was still in the palace and, if he was, whether the duke could spare him a few minutes. His exploit of the pr
evious day being well disseminated, as he had hoped, Denoriel was waved ahead to the entrance of the palace itself.

  From there a servant was dispatched with his request and in a flatteringly short time returned with an invitation to the duke's apartment. However Norfolk did not greet him with open arms.

  "I hope you have not come to see Harry," Norfolk said. "His guards say he seems calmer this morning and I would prefer not to wake up unpleasant memories for him."

  "No, indeed, Your Grace," Denoriel said. "I hope most sincerely that he will soon forget . . . well, no, I cannot believe he would forget what happened but that it will recede in his mind. However, I have been unable to put out of my mind the way he clung to me before he finally fell asleep. I have been concerned that the poor child would continue to want me near him and be frightened. This would be inconvenient for all, and, I think, of no great good for the boy."

  "Well, he must learn to conquer it," Norfolk said, but Denoriel could tell he was not happy about what he had said.

  Without even probing Norfolk's mind, Denoriel knew that the duke was deeply worried about King Henry's reaction to the news of the attack, which would reach him this morning. If the king also heard that Harry was miserable and had not got over his fright, it was possible that King Henry would appoint another guardian. Denoriel hoped to make use of Norfolk's anxiety.

  "Yes, of course," Denoriel agreed, "but it occurred to me that anything I could do to give His Grace confidence might be a help." He bestowed on the Duke his most charming smile.

  And as he might have predicted, Norfolk misunderstood. "Forgive me, Lord Denno, but I cannot permit the duke of Richmond to become dependent—"

  "No, no." Denoriel raised a hand in protest. "That the boy should constantly crave my company would not be acceptable either to you or to me. I love the child—I will admit that—but obviously I have a life of my own to live; I certainly cannot live with him. It would ill befit my status or his. Moreover, I understand that His Grace is too important a person to form such a close bond to a foreigner. However, young children believe easily in wonders and marvels. I think if the child had a talisman that he believed was a good-luck charm . . . it might give him the courage he needs and confidence enough to learn to stand on his own, as a man. And—as it happens, perhaps this particular talisman does bring protection."

  While he spoke he had been drawing the cross in its protective pouch out of his purse. He had also been casting the very lightest of spells on Norfolk, a spell of confidence and acceptance. Inwardly steeling himself, Denoriel flipped up the silk flap and drew the cross out of the pouch by the heavy gold chain he had "kenned," created, and connected to the cross—at the cost of burnt fingers that Mwynwen had to heal. He held the cross up, hoping Norfolk would be looking at it rather than at his dry lips and sweat-beaded brow.

  "This was my younger brother's. It was said to be an ancient relic, taken from the grave of one of the disciples of Christ. It was said to give protection and good fortune. I would like His Grace of Richmond to have it."

  Norfolk shook his head slightly. "It doesn't seem to have helped your brother."

  "My brother did not have it when the Turks overran Hungary—or I would not have it in my possession now." Denoriel's voice was shaking and he swallowed and swallowed again, grateful that Norfolk would almost certainly put his sickness down to emotions over his losses. But he could bear no more and slipped the cross back into the pouch. "I was going on a long voyage and my brother gave the cross to me, to keep me safe." Tears of easing pain came to his eyes and he drew out his kerchief and openly wiped them away. "I was safe," he whispered. "Only my brother died."

  Norfolk reached out for the cross and took it from Denoriel, who suppressed a sigh of relief. A moment later the aching nausea returned as the duke pulled it out of the pouch and examined it closely, turning it this way and that. Finally, he returned it to the pouch and seemingly rather reluctantly, held it out to Denoriel.

  "A true relic is too precious a thing to give to a six-year-old child," he said.

  Denoriel smiled and reinforced the spell of belief. "I cannot prove it is a true relic—I only believe it myself. However, you can explain that it is a precious possession of mine to His Grace's nurse. She will take good care of it."

  Norfolk's hand closed around the pouch and drew it back, away from Denoriel. "But why should Harry believe that this will truly protect him?" he muttered, frowning.

  "If you will promise not to tease the boy or laugh at him," Denoriel said, "I can give you a reason that only a six-year-old would believe but no one else will argue about."

  "What is that?"

  Norfolk was still looking at the cross in its pouch. Now he drew it out again. Denoriel stepped back a bit and forced color into his face. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

  "I am afraid that His Grace of Richmond thinks I am . . . ah . . . I am—"

  "Yes?" Norfolk's gaze was now keen and wary.

  "His fairy guardian," Denoriel got out in a rush. "A fairy knight sent to him by the Fairy Queen to protect him."

  "What?" The duke burst out laughing.

  Denoriel made a helpless gesture and offered a sheepish smile. "Children!" He gestured toward the cross. "Put it away, please. I will be content when I know young Richmond is wearing it, but it makes me sad to look at it now."

  Norfolk slipped the cross into its pouch and then tucked it into his purse, but he had not been distracted from his surprise and amusement. "Fairy gaurdian?" he repeated. "Why did you tell him that?"

  "I never did, Your Grace," Denoriel protested. "It is ridiculous. It was because of a series of accidents. One day when His Grace was playing by the pond I came through that part of the garden. His boat had got away, but I didn't know that. I only saw the children running up and down the shore of the pond and I waved at them. It seems that a breeze came up and blew the boat back."

  "Didn't you tell them it was an accident?"

  "I never spoke to them at the time. Then another time it was a kite. The string broke and he was crying over losing it. I saw it caught in a tree and climbed up and brought it down. He insisted that the kite was loose. That time I did tell him the string was caught on a branch but he said he hadn't seen me climb the tree, just call the kite down to my hand." He shrugged. "Children! They see magic where there is none. Who knows what else he believed. And then when the men attacked him and I happened to see the open gate, that seemed to be the finishing touch." Denoriel sighed heavily.

  Norfolk, however, was no longer looking so amused. His expression was uncertain, both wary and relieved. "So if I tell him this cross is your way of protecting him when you cannot be with him," Norfolk mused, "you think he will believe that."

  "I suspect so, my lord." Denoriel shrugged but then frowned. "But, Your Grace, I beg that you not believe it. I beg you to keep a close watch on him. Perhaps that cross is a true relic, but perhaps it is not. You and I know that God helps best those who help themselves. As the boy grows into his manhood, he will leave such childish fears and beliefs behind."

  "But that he should believe you to be something wonderful—" Norfolk cleared his throat. "I do not wish to offend you, Lord Denno. You have been most understanding and helpful, but to have so much influence over the premier duke in the country . . ."

  "While he is a child of six?" Denoriel chuckled. "I doubt he will remember the idea for very long, and if he should remember it some years from now, he will be greatly embarrassed by it."

  Norfolk snorted, then laughed. "I suppose you are right. Very well. Do you want to give it to him?"

  Denoriel gave a quick thought to being able to explain the real purpose of the cross to FitzRoy but then realized that Norfolk would probably come with him. He shook his head.

  "I have not the time today, Your Grace. I must be back in London before night. I would be grateful if you gave it to him and told him I could not stay today but that I would come to visit him in three days? If you will give me leave to come in three
days, that is? I have business in Maidenhead and I could stop in Windsor on my way back toward London because I will be . . . ah . . . spending the night with a good friend who lives not far from here. I think three more days will give young Richmond time to settle and come to trust his 'charm' without my presence."

  Norfolk pondered it, and Denoriel waited for his tiny spell of influence to work. "Hmmm. I will not be here then, but yes, I will leave word that you should be made welcome, Lord Denno. And I will see that Harry gets this before I begin my day's business."

  When Pasgen arrived at Rhoslyn's summons, having followed a spirit of the air, he found her standing over two bodies. One was lifeless; the other was stirring slightly, its eyes empty and drool slobbering its chin. Rhoslyn's face was as white and translucent as the mists that swirled around them. Her eyes were sunken, her cheeks hollow.

  "I have what I need," she said, her voice flat. "Get rid of the remains."

  "Why me?" Pasgen protested.

  Rhoslyn trembled with some emotion Pasgen could not identify and said, choking, "I was the one who had to wade through the filth of their minds. I will have the labor of building a changeling . . . a child that I know cannot live. At least you can clear out this offal!"

  "What do you want me to do with them?" Pasgen asked irritably. "What's left isn't even good as bait for the Wild Hunt."

  Rhoslyn closed her eyes. "I don't care what you do with them so long as they are gone from this place. What's left of them is muddling my image."

  "Did you bring one of your servants?" Pasgen asked, looking around, but the thick, almost palpable clouds of . . . whatever . . . were too dense.

  "I never bring my servants here," she said, "and you should not either. The mists attract them. I lost a girl some time ago. Perhaps she let herself lose form and be a part of what is here, but it is equally likely she has gone feral and preys on what passes through."