This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  "Liar!" Gilfaethwy roared. "I sensed your aura caught in the patterning. Do you think me such a fool that I do not leave safeguards on my creations? You aren't the only half-baked, untaught, untalented half-wit to try to cheat me! I sensed your aura . . . and the foulness you had hidden beneath your so-young, so-innocent . . ."

  The mage's voice faded and Denoriel felt an assessing touch sweep over him. Denoriel had done this and that of which his too-gentle sister disapproved, but he was sure he had never done anything that a fellow Sidhe would consider foul and he raised no shields, except those that already existed on his very inmost being.

  Then his mind caught on the idea of an aura very like his but tainted with foulness. Pasgen. Pasgen had meddled with the Gate!

  "It was not I," Denoriel insisted. "I have a halfbrother . . ."

  "Eh?" He caught the mage quite off-guard with that.

  He hurried on. "Surely the tale is known to you! I have an Unseleighe halfbrother . . . We are contending with one another over this child. It is not impossible that he tried to set the Gate so that if I escaped into it, I and the child would be transported to . . . likely to his domain or to his twin sister's."

  The mage blinked. "Twin sister?"

  "Yes. There are two sets of twins, myself and my sister, and Pasgen and his." The double births were so extraordinary—quite unheard of—he could not believe that the mage had never heard of them.

  "Silverhair . . . twins. Aha. Now I remember, of course. Two sets of twins."

  Gilfaethwy paused, stared hard at Denoriel, and snapped his fingers. When they had arrived in his overcrowded and even more disordered workroom, he nodded.

  "Now I remember." He spoke absently, and Denoriel suspected, mostly to himself, for the words came slowly, as if he was pulling memories out of some corner of his mind that had not been looked into for a very long time. "Yes. Llanelli Ffridd Gwynneth Arian craved children to the point of madness, and had a great magic worked and caught in it your father—not that he knew what she had done because he went innocently from Llanelli to the bed of his current lady . . . ah, yes, your mother . . . and enough of the spell was bound into him that she, too, conceived. And also twins. And then the Unseleighe learned of you, and came to take you. You and your sister, we saved, though at cost. And one set was stolen away by our Unseleighe kin—and Llanelli followed her children into the halls of shadow."

  Denoriel made a wordless sound of agreement.

  "So you are innocent of playing with my Gates. And your half-brother is a magician of considerable ability." He paused, making chewing motions with his mouth as if he had an sour unripe fruit in it that he had to swallow. "He understands Gates. He made it a little unstable, but likely if the child had not been wearing the cold iron cross, the Gate would have placed you where he wanted you."

  "That gives me no great joy, magus," Denoriel said.

  Gilfaethwy shrugged.

  "Can you take the Gates down and replace them with new Gates?" he asked, urgently.

  The mage gave him a withering look. "To what purpose, you idiot? Do you think your brother is not aware of what happened? Do you think he would not repattern any Gate you used?"

  "Even the ones in London and at Windsor?" Denoriel persisted. "Can you sense his meddling there also?"

  "I cannot even sense the Gates at this distance. Those are Treowth's Gates. He uses a completely different system than I do. If you want those Gates tested, he must do it himself."

  Denoriel sighed. He had been told that Treowth had moved to the Bazaar of the Bizarre. There were three great markets Underhill—Elves' Fair, Goblin Market, and the Bazaar of the Bizarre. Denoriel had never been to any of them. He was young enough, still, to enjoy his life filled with music and dancing and making love and the Wild Hunt for excitement and danger. He had not yet needed to seek for toys in the market—any of the markets, where it was said that making a bargain for what you wanted might cost your life or your soul or both.

  Elves' Fair catered to those who were so weak in magic that they could not build their own servants. Constructs of every variety were available there, as well as bound monsters, bound elementals, and, very occasionally, mortal slaves. There were no guarantees given with that merchandise. Goblin Market sold mixed wares, toys, spells, devices—mortal, Sidhe, and from the other planes—as well as information, but it was said that you could take nothing away except what you already had and did not want. Bazaar of the Bizarre was what it said . . . except that what was bizarre to elves and the denizens of stranger realms was bizarre indeed.

  The question was how to get there. Denoriel drew a deep breath and said, "I know that Magus Treowth is said to be in the Bazaar of the Bizarre. I paid you for Gates, but I do not have them and you say you cannot replace them. Your contract is not fulfilled Magus Gilfaethwy."

  "I can replace them," Gilfaethwy snarled. "Out of my good heart, I have warned you—"

  "That you cannot make me a Gate proof against my halfbrother's meddling," Denoriel snapped back. "Very well, I accept that. Instead, tell me how to get to the Bazaar of the Bizarre and how to find Magus Treowth when I am there."

  Again Gilfaethwy seemed to chew on that sour mouthful, but then he shrugged his shoulders. "It is easy enough, only four Gates from Avalon."

  "Four Gates?"

  "Oberon is not inclined to favor the notion that the Seleighe Sidhe become enamored of 'foreign' toys or uncanny slaves. Thus, he does not make the path to the markets easy." He made a grimace. "The High King is right, too. The Sidhe get lazier and lazier. With a little thought and a little labor they could make anything they can buy at the markets."

  "I am not going there for toys," Denoriel pointed out. "The child I am protecting must be returned to his own time and people. The good of the mortal realm of Logres as well as that of Elfhame Logres, and perhaps Elfhame Avalon, rests on him somehow. I must have a safe Gate."

  The mage heaved a theatrical sigh. "Very well. Very well. The first Gate is from Avalon to the Hall of the Mountain King."

  "The Gate from Avalon only takes me to Logres!" he protested

  The mage gave him another withering glance. "You are an idiot! The Avalon Gate has six termini. Pick the one to the Mountain King's Hall."

  "How?" Denoriel roared, his hand going to his sword.

  A flash of light flew from Gilfaethwy's index finger. As swiftly Denoriel's shields were up and the light splashed harmlessly on them. Gilfaethwy's eyes opened wide.

  "Not such an idiot after all," he said, grudgingly.

  "Shields I know," Denoriel said. "My duty is to protect the child. Shields have been necessary."

  Gilfaethwy sighed. "Very well. In every Gate there is a power point." He gestured and a small Gate appeared in the air between them. "Look for that." When Denoriel nodded, his brows went up, but he only said, "Feel within for the nodules— "

  As Denoriel "reached" within the Gate, the mage waved a frantic hand at him. "Aieee! Do not touch them or think at them. There is only the Void on the other side and no Gate back."

  "Sorry," Denoriel said, contritely.

  Gilfaethwy paused, and gave him a measuring look. "You are very quick to learn. How is it that you are so disgustingly ignorant of magic?"

  "Because I am just what you said, Magus Gilfaethwy . . . an idiot!" Denoriel replied feelingly and sincerely, full of disgust at his own ignorance and hubris. "I thought my skill with a sword could answer any trouble I might find and I refused to learn. Of course I was terribly wrong. I know it now."

  "Hmmm." Gilfaethwy eyed him with speculation. "It is not too late."

  "I know that, magus," he said earnestly. "And I have sworn that I will learn magic as soon as I have time. But right now what is most important is the safety of the child I guard and his return to his own time and place."

  "Yes, yes." The mage waved dismissively. "You said that already. Very well, when you have arrived at the Hall of the Mountain King, do not leave the Gate. Find the power point and chose an Unformed
domain as your next stop. There are only one or two in that Gate and both of them are safe enough if you do not look for trouble."

  "An idiot, but not that much of one," he said, quietly.

  "The Gate in the Unformed domain, either one, will have a terminus in Furhold. Go there."

  Denoriel smiled involuntarily as he thought about Harry in Furhold. What a shame they could not linger.

  "Furhold is the only real complication. You must cross nearly the entire domain to find the second Gate. It is at the back of the Badger's Hole. That Gate goes direct to the Bazaar."

  "Thank you, magus," Denoriel said. Gilfaethwy raised a hand, but Denoriel did too, and said, "Wait. What will it cost me to have you keep a watch on the Gates, the one from Logres to Sheriff Hutton. I know the one in the wood is gone, but there is another in the palace itself—"

  "I know. I placed it there." Gilfaethwy's voice was dry.

  "Yes, of course. Sorry. But I would like to know . . . and about the two Gates one in, the other near, Pontefract."

  Gilfaethwy was silent for a moment and then his lips pursed outward, folded in, and he said, "I would like to know, too. I will keep watch. As to the price . . . I will not make it too onerous. Another book, perhaps."

  "Thank you."

  Denoriel did not know whether the magus heard him since he was outside beside Miralys before the words were out of his mouth. He mounted slowly, rethinking his reaction to Gilfaethwy's mention of Furhold. Harry would enjoy it, but was it safe to take him through so many Gates, several of which Pasgen could have reached? And even the neutral, Seleighe-leaning, domain of Furhold had its dangers.

  But how could Pasgen know he would go to the Bazaar? And could there be a greater danger than to leave the boy alone without anyone to explain why he was there in Llachar Lle? With Oberon and Titania and their taste for mortal playthings so close?

  Miralys's response to Denoriel's sudden anguished sense of urgency was to return to the Gate in what seemed like a single leap and virtually levitate to the center of the eight-pointed star under the interwoven boughs of the silver trees. Denoriel caught barely the slightest touch of the recognition spell and the faintest shiver of disorientation before they reappeared under the dome of opal lace of the Gate at Logres. The steed was not quite so quick about reaching the steps up to the portico of Llachar Lle.

  Denoriel felt Miralys's reluctance, and when they reached the steps to the palace portico, he slid down and hugged the elvensteed, thinking it would be safer to take Harry with him. Then his arms froze around the steed's neck as the Thought touched him and what he had been about to say to Miralys caught in his throat. Under his hand, the elvensteed shivered. And again the touch was gone.

  "I'm going to wake the boy and take him with us," Denoriel said to his steed. "I can't leave him here."

  To his intense surprise Miralys broke from under his hand and disappeared into the sort-of wilderness beyond the pool. Fear rose in him. Had Miralys felt something in that Thought he had missed? Would he be unable to wake Harry? To leave with the boy? Heart pounding in his throat, Denoriel hurried up the steps and to his apartment.

  He expected disaster, but found nothing amiss. However, it seemed that time for a mortal passed even more swiftly Underhill than he had believed. While he was with Magus Gilfaethwy, Harry had slept himself out and wakened. He was in his seat at the table, happy, if slightly anxious over Denoriel's absence, eating a typically English breakfast.

  "Did you sleep well?" Denoriel asked, thinking that Harry would probably retain the experience as a bad dream if Oberon had snatched him to examine him and then replaced him. Replaced him . . . "Harry, take out your cross, just for a moment."

  The malaise of being in the vicinity of cold iron hit Denoriel at once. A servant coming into the dining room not only dropped a plate but disintegrated. The cross was real. Harry was real.

  "Right. Put it away, please."

  "Why did you wish to see my cross?" Harry asked around a mouthful of porridge.

  "I just wanted to be sure the cross was working." He rubbed his hand across his forehead surreptitiously, wondering if he was going to have a chance to rest any time soon. "We're going to have a busy day out and around Underhill."

  The boy dropped his spoon and clapped his hands. "Oh, good! You are going to let me see more."

  "It is not an excursion for pleasure. You remember those bad faeries that were chasing you?" The boy nodded over a piece of bread slathered with jam. "It was partly their fault that the Gate was destroyed. So now I can't use the other Gate because I'm afraid it's been changed. We have to find Magus Treowth and find out if he can fix the Gates or build a new one."

  "And if he can't? Will I have to stay here with you?" There was no mistaking the eagerness in Harry's face.

  Denoriel laughed, ruefully. "Don't look so happy about it. No, I'm sorry to say there are other ways to reach the mortal world, but those will take much longer and we would have to explain where you've been all this time . . . and lots of other things. If Magus Treowth will deal with the Gates, that will be easiest. And don't pout. You're going to see the Bazaar of the Bizarre."

  "Is it really bizarre?" FitzRoy swallowed two spoonsful of porridge in a hurry, crammed the remainder of his jam-covered bread in his mouth, and washed the whole down with milk. "I'm ready," he said.

  Denoriel laughed again. "Not in those clothes. You look like trade goods in those clothes."

  Harry shivered slightly. "They'll think I'm a slave? But I don't have any other clothes."

  "Don't worry about that. Just take off what you're wearing—"

  He gave a mental order to the servants not to clean the clothes. Then when Harry stood before him in undershirt and small clothes, he gestured. Harry gasped.

  On his feet were square-toed, open-work shoes of polished leather. Through the cut-outs and then up to mid-thigh one could see long, bright blue tights and over them in successive layers, a brilliantly white linen shirt with a smooth, round collar; a square-necked doublet of darker blue than the tights, lavishly embroidered in bands with a twining vine pattern in gold; a sleeveless jacquette of gold satin striped in the dark blue of the doublet, which showed through the widely open front of the jacquette.

  The jacquette came together to a tight-fitted waist and extended down in a full skirt to mid-thigh, concealing the bottom of the doublet, but the sleeves of that garment were visible past the short, puffed sleeves of the magnificent gown. This was enormously full and completely lined with ermine so that the deep turned-back collar and lapels showed the shining white fur in contrast to the gown's rich gold-on-blue brocade.

  "Oh, my," Harry said. "This is full court dress, isn't it? Won't I be hot?"

  "No," Denoriel said, smiling. "The weather Underhill seems to adjust to one's clothing—except, of course, for those domains like the arctic tundras or the deserts where the temperature is part of the making."

  In another moment he was attired much as FitzRoy was, except that he was wearing black and gold with red embroidery and sable fur instead of ermine. Another gesture created two hats, one of blue velvet, one of black, each decorated with a single ostrich plume. Both put on their hats, nodded at one another to indicate they were on straight, and stepped out into the antechamber.

  "Not the cloak too," Harry protested.

  Denoriel looked down at the small figure so enveloped in clothing that it looked tubby, which Harry was not. "No, I suppose not," he sighed. "Just take the cross out where you can slip it out of the pouch easily if you need to or I tell you to."

  The boy sighed with relief. Denoriel smiled at him and picked up the mortal-world saddle. Perhaps it would be enough to trade for information about Treowth's lodging. He went to the door, looked out, saw no one in the corridor, and gestured for FitzRoy to step out.

  The boy checked so suddenly, right in front of the door, that Denoriel almost leapt after him, fearing that Harry had seen some danger previously concealed. The corridor was empty, but the loud
thrum of voices coming from the wide, main corridor was a shock, and Denoriel could see a crowd of Sidhe where his corridor entered the main corridor.

  Denoriel hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should retreat to his apartment. In the next moment he had decided that the large crowd would be the best concealment for him and the boy, and he took Harry's hand and tried to turn sharply left to make his way to the front door. That proved impossible; there were simply too many Sidhe moving toward the throne room. Harry, small and light, was swept up immediately. Denoriel, unwilling either to release his hand or pull his arm out of its socket, perforce followed inexorably toward the wide open doors.

  Once inside the throne room, however, it was possible for Denoriel to move sideways along the wall. Most of the crowd was eager to go forward to be as close as possible to the dais on which were the thrones of the High King and Queen. He did not move far, hoping when the crowd diminished to be able to slide out before the doors were shut.

  He did not succeed in that either. Indeed, he was just congratulating himself on his cleverness, guiding Harry toward the door with a hand on his shoulder, when he was accosted by a very High Lord Sidhe, a Sidhe he knew—Lord Ffrancon—standing directly in his path.

  The elf was a half a hand taller than Denoriel, straight as a pine and supple as a willow. His hair was pure silver and cascaded down his back like the foam of a waterfall. The points of his ears stood proud, a hand span above the crown of his head, but his green eyes were light, silvered over, betraying his age. He wore a leaf-green tunic with a high collar that fanned out behind his head over silver tights and an undertunic of darker green, which showed at his neck and in the tight sleeves that were exposed below the full, dagged sleeves of the tunic. A wide silver band holding one single emerald as large as a pigeon's egg confined his hair and the long arm-guard of an archer, chased elaborately in solid silver, on his right forearm were his only ornaments.

  "Denoriel Siencyn Macreth Silverhair?"