This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  "I would not mind staying with her . . ." Harry sounded a bit dreamy, but then he shook himself. "No. It is my duty to go home."

  Denoriel was relieved. "Yes, it is, and I fear that we may have to walk to the Gate, because—"

  "But Lord Denno—" Harry interrupted, "Miralys is here, and oh, look!"

  Denoriel had started down the steps still looking at FitzRoy. He stopped suddenly when the boy spoke, looked down, and then stood transfixed, mouth agape. Miralys, as Harry had said, was there, waiting. But with him was a second elvensteed, much smaller, exquisitely beautiful, with a silvery blue coat admirably set off by a flowing silver mane and tail. She—the steed had to be female—craned her head coyly to look at FitzRoy with large, dark eyes.

  Before Denoriel could move, the boy had run down the steps and flung his arms around the smaller elvensteed's neck. "Oh, you're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen," he cried. "Oh, have you come to carry me? Will you? Oh, please! I'll sit as light as I can, I promise."

  Denoriel took the first four steps flying, then slowed and sighed with relief as he saw the elvensteed nuzzling Harry's hair. The steeds were elegant and dignified; they did not appreciate unmannerly behavior, and could be quite unpleasant about rebuking it. However, it was plain that the mare had taken no offense. Once again, the child's charm had won over another elven ally.

  Harry was still burbling to her. "And I'll brush you and comb you all you like. Oh, I know you can take care of yourself, Lord Denno told me so, but grooming, that's for being together, for love. You'll let me brush you, won't you, Lady Aeron?"

  "Aeron?" Denoriel breathed.

  It was not that he was surprised that Harry knew the steed's name. He had known Miralys's name when the elvensteed first came to carry him. He was surprised by the name. Aeron was Cymric for the goddess of slaughter.

  When she heard him, the mare lifted her head and looked at Denoriel; in that moment her eyes burned red. Denoriel choked and looked at Miralys, who whickered softly. Denoriel had the strong impression that if Miralys could, he would have shrugged. Denoriel sighed. When your steed laughs at you, you are in a bad way. Naturally, knowing the dangers threatening Harry, Miralys would have arranged for a steed capable of defending herself as well as the boy.

  He put the saddle on Miralys; it was easier than carrying it. Aeron made a saddle for FitzRoy and Denoriel gave him a leg up. They were barely mounted, when they were at the Gate. Denoriel looked into it, willed, and the plaque with its nodules appeared, each bearing a miniature image. Once under the opal roof, Denoriel extended a thread of power to touch the image of a huge, dark hall.

  The reality made Denoriel choke again. The "huge," dark hall was, perhaps, some four ells long, three ells high, and two wide—not even as large, although higher, than his bedchamber in London. In every other respect it was what one would expect of the hall of a mountain king—a dark cave lit by flaring torches and by myriad gleams in the rough-hewn walls and ceiling, which hinted of precious gems. A fire, huge for the size of the hall, burned redly in the center.

  Beyond the fire was a throne chair, forged of some dark metal and decorated with skulls. More skulls sat on the benches, which also served as tables on the other three sides. To each side of the throne was a table, and on that table lay heaps of stones that caught the light of the fire and winked and shimmered. On the benches, in the jaws of the skulls, were more stones. Some jaws held more jewels, some fewer.

  "If those are precious stones—" Harry began from beside Denoriel.

  "A trap," Denoriel said. "Gilfaethwy warned me not to leave the Gate."

  There were people . . . manikins, perhaps a half a foot tall . . . all turning to look at the Gate. And suddenly the figure on the throne chair seemed to see them. He leapt up, grabbing from the side of the chair a war hammer almost as large as himself. The men (for they were men despite being so small) on the benches also rose, drawing swords and unloosing war axes. Other figures, (likely women for they wore full-skirted gowns) backed away toward the walls. The sound the warriors made in shouting was more a screech than a roar, but their intention could not be mistaken.

  Hastily Denoriel called up the floating plaque and directed his will at a nodule that showed only a white mist.

  The Gate here was nearly as formless as the swirling mists, four pillars that wavered and shrank, threatening to dissipate. There was a roaring cough in the distance and a growling shriek. Harry watched the mist, one hand wound into Lady Aeron's mane. The elvensteed also watched the mist, and Denoriel could see her eyes gleaming red. He willed the plaque and it formed, but then it distorted and he found it almost impossible to make out what was on the nodules.

  More menacing sounds rose from the mist and seemed to come closer. Then something shrieked in death agony. The plaque was twisting and writhing, the pillars of the Gate seemed more tenuous by the moment. Something long and thin began to creep out of the mist. Miralys snorted and stamped his feet. Denoriel caught a glimpse of bright yellow surrounded by blue and he selected that nodule.

  They arrived on a raised platform surrounded by a low, white-painted fence. The platform had a roof shaped rather like half an onion with the stems at the top replaced by enormous ostrich feathers. The inside of the roof was also painted white and the floor the elvensteeds stood on was very clean red brick in a herringbone pattern. Then there was a burst of applause. Harry gasped. Denoriel sighed. They had arrived at Furhold all right, in one of its more playful moments.

  Arranged before the stand upon which . . . obviously . . . performances occurred were a dozen rows of chairs set in a semicircle. All of the chairs were occupied by beings—that was the closest Denoriel could come describing the audience—and all of the occupants of the chairs were applauding and looking eagerly at the platform.

  "Harry, can you play? Sing?"

  Harry was staring at the audience, his eyes round as tennis balls and giving the definite appearance of being ready to pop out of his head and bounce. He took a deep breath and swallowed.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Which?" Denoriel asked, dismounting from Miralys.

  "Both," Harry said, then blinked, but his eyes remained fixed on the persons regarding him. "I guess I sing better than I play," he said, shrugging and beginning to grin. "One doesn't really have to learn how to sing."

  Lady Aeron moved—the closest Denoriel could come to the motion was to say that she flexed her back—and Harry slid down to stand beside Denoriel. The elvensteeds both leapt over the low fence behind Harry and Denoriel and seemed to disappear. Neither Harry nor Denoriel turned to look for them. They would be there when they were needed.

  Meanwhile a being suddenly rose from beside the performance area; its head and body to the waist were those of a handsome Oriental man, but it had large multicolor wings attached to its back, and from the waist down the body of a large speckled hen. It bowed gravely to Harry and Denoriel and mounted the two steps from ground level to the platform, its chicken claws clicking audibly on the brick.

  "The High Court Sidhe and the mortal boy will now grace us with their art."

  "I am not so sure what we will do will be art," Denoriel said, chuckling, "or that we will even perform with grace, but we will do our best. I need a lute. I did not know I would need an instrument."

  The being gestured and Denoriel noticed that low chests had appeared along the fence surrounding the platform. When he looked again, one of the chests was labeled Lutes.

  He opened it and took out a lute that looked suspiciously like the one he occasionally picked at when he was home alone and bored. He sighed again.

  "Do you know the 'Maiden in the Moor?' " Harry whispered.

  "Hum a line or two," Denoriel murmured back.

  As he had hoped, it was a rather generic tune that almost any rhythmic verse would fit. He began to strum the lute. When he got to the chorus, Harry nodded. Denoriel began again and Harry began to sing:

  Maiden in the moor lay

  In the
moor lay

  Sennight full, sennight full

  Maiden in the moor lay

  Sennight full and a day

  Good enough was her meat

  What was her meat?

  The primrose and the——

  The primrose and the——

  Good enough was her meat

  The primrose and the violet

  Good enough was her drink

  What was her drink?

  The chilled water of the well-spring

  Good enough was her drink

  Good enough was her bower

  What was her bower?

  The red rose and the lily flower

  Good enough was her bower

  Maiden in the moor lay

  In the moor lay

  Sennight full, sennight full

  Maiden in the moor lay

  Sennight full and a day.

  The boy's voice was not only high and sweet but strong. Denoriel gazed down at him with considerable surprise. If it wasn't the silliest song he had ever heard, it was close to it, but it didn't matter at all. The audience was enchanted. They stamped their feet—those that had feet—and clapped their hands, and beat their wings, and jumped on and off their seats, and honked their horns, buzzed, waved their trunks and tentacles. Denoriel bowed. Harry bowed.

  "A most worthy entertainment," the man-chicken said. "Will your boy sing again?"

  "I am very sorry," Denoriel said. "We are pressed for time."

  "This Gate is one way," the man-chicken remarked with a sly smile. "You can only enter Furhold here. You cannot leave from it."

  "I know," Denoriel assured him, mendaciously.

  Actually he had not known that he could not leave from this Gate at all. That was another bone he had to pick with Gilfaethwy, who had made the transits to the Bazaar of the Bizarre sound so simple. He began to wonder if the magus was so deep in his work that he had made connections with the Unseleighe. Was he paying off favors by exposing Harry to his enemies? What had Gilfaethwy wanted the human blood for?

  "Well, for only one song, the reward cannot be great. We hoped for some extended entertainment. Three songs at least."

  "Our need for reward is not great. Only direction to the Badger's Hole."

  "Oh, Hen Ne, don't add pig to your mixture. You've had more than you expected when you made that drunken bet with Eigg Oh."

  The speaker made Harry's eyes widen with delight and made Denoriel smile. He could have been a boy of twelve or fourteen. He was a bit taller than Harry, dressed almost identically, although his colors were red and gold . . . except he had the head of a fox. Denoriel bowed slightly—acknowledgment, not respect; Harry made haste to do so too.

  "Thank you, kitsune," Denoriel said, picking his words carefully. The kitsune, which were fox-spirits, were well known for being tricksters. "Will you take us to the Badger's Hole? And what will I owe for your service?"

  "I'm Matka Toimisto and you won't owe me anything. I assume if you want the Gate at the Badger's Hole that you're going to the Bazaar? I'll just go along with you. A High Court elf and a boy marked with Oberon's favor seem like good company for the Bazaar of the Bizarre."

  Meanwhile Hen Ne had been joined on the platform by a being that made even Denoriel blink. It was a head, just a huge head with rather blurred features half buried in folds of flesh. It had arms sticking out from about where its ears should have been—the ears were near the corners of its eyes—and two short, sturdy legs under its chin.

  "No, I won't," the head was saying. "And it wouldn't matter if they sang and played for the next week. You need three acts—three different acts—not three songs by one act."

  "You are totally unreasonable, Eigg Oh," Hen Ne protested. "Who knows how long it will be before someone else comes through this gate. I need the—"

  "Excuse me, gentles," Denoriel said, almost succeeding in hiding his smile, "but my ears are not only long but keen. I hear from what is being said that the boy and I cannot be of further service. Being that is true, we thank you for our welcome to Furhold and will be on our way."

  The man-chicken looked very disgruntled, but he made no active protest and the head's folds of flesh rearranged themselves somehow into an expression of satisfaction.

  Denoriel returned the lute to the chest and took Harry's hand. The boy looked a bit startled, but Denoriel said, "It's very easy to get separated in Underhill. Furhold is reasonably safe, but there is the occasional troublemaker even here. Unless you're mounted on Lady Aeron we should maintain contact with each other."

  "Oh, I'd find him for you," the kitsune said.

  Denoriel raised his brows. "How obliging you are. What did you do at the Bazaar that you need our company so desperately? If you drew a weapon . . ."

  "No!" Matka Toimisto exclaimed. "No, I never! But there was this girl and her man took exception . . . I was only talking to her . . ."

  "I can imagine," the Sidhe remarked under his breath and Harry giggled; he was old enough now to recognize sexual innuendoes.

  The kitsune sighed, but all he said was, "I hadn't finished my business. I really need to go back."

  "You are welcome to come with us," Denoriel said, "but I can't promise you my protection. We are not shopping at the Bazaar. I must find Magus Treowth—"

  "Magus Treowth? But that is the person I want to see also!"

  Denoriel hesitated, then asked, "May I ask what business you have with him?"

  "It isn't a secret. I want to learn how to pass between the worlds unGated. The elvensteeds do it."

  The kitsune's eyes gleamed, Denoriel suspected with a mixture of mischief and avarice. He wondered if he were doing the right thing in allowing Matka Toimisto to accompany them. It would save time and effort if they could get to the Badger's Hole without a dozen stops for directions and misdirections, but letting loose a kitsune on the unsuspecting mortal world seemed an unnecessary addition to its problems.

  Then again, so long as a kitsune could find a Gate, he was loose on the mortal world anyway.

  They had all stepped down from the platform while they were talking. As soon as they were clear of the semicircle of chairs, the elvensteeds appeared. Denoriel asked if it were worthwhile to mount and the kitsune shook his head.

  "You can't go any faster than me," he pointed out. "And I'm afoot."

  His smile was very cheerful and he started out across the parklike lawn with apparent confidence. Denoriel decided his shoulders were not broad enough to support the problems of the mortal world. Magus Treowth was no fool, and knew what the kitsune were. Likely he wouldn't give Matka Toimisto what he asked for without some safeguards—if what the kitsune wanted was possible at all.

  Their progress across the lawn was by no means direct. It was necessary to stop and dodge the myriad of playing children who were running and jumping, sometimes on two legs, sometimes on four, sometimes on more, occasionally rolling themselves along like hoops. Blankets were spread and every variety of animal-human mix seemed to be indulging in games, picnics, and foreplay for lovemaking. Denoriel didn't know whether to tell Harry not to look or just hope he wouldn't notice. At the moment the second choice seemed safe enough. The boy was staring up into the "sky."

  "Lord Denno," he said, sounding bemused, "that can't be a real sky. Look at the sun. Oh! It winked at me!"

  The sun was a round, bright yellow saucer with a face painted on it, except that the features were mobile. It was surrounded with petals, which occasionally waved as if in a breeze and also occasionally gave off bright sparks. The blue sky surrounding it made no attempt to seem real. It looked painted, and the white clouds visible here and there did not move and looked painted too.

  "No, it's not real," Denoriel said, and laughed. "I think it was a committee that made Furhold. One of them must have had a sense of humor."

  Harry squeezed his hand. "It's nice here. Really nice. The people are so friendly."

  He waved at a party of bearlike beings wearing short leather pants with straps over
their shoulders. They were playing some complex game laid out on a board between them, but they looked up and waved back at Harry as he passed.

  A group of boys—well, none were wearing obviously female dress, although it was hard otherwise to tell gender or even kind—ran past rolling hoops. Harry looked up hopefully.

  "Could I ask if they'd let me play?" he asked.

  "I suspect we're going to have to explain how you were out all night as it is," Denoriel said. "I'm not sure I can think of a way to explain your being 'lost in the woods' with nothing to eat or drink for a couple of days. Somehow I doubt Sir Edward would believe primroses and violets . . ."

  Harry laughed and they walked a little faster. Soon a darker rim to the lawn appeared, which resolved itself into buildings as they came closer. Matka Toimisto pointed off to the right and they turned in that direction.

  CHAPTER 22

  Vidal Dhu had summoned his court—every single being that owed obedience to him was present in his huge black-pillared throne room. The floor was the red of blood, and sometimes those who needed to cross it felt as if they were wading in blood; the walls were red-patterned gold. Mage lights glowed from skull holders affixed to the pillars and walls; heads, huge things not remotely human but with some recognizable features that made them more loathsome, hung from the ceiling burning green and purple, the mouths working in silent agony.

  At the forefront of the repulsive mixture of creatures were straight golden chairs with bloodred cushions on seats and backs. In those sat the Unseleighe Sidhe, some as fair as and nearly indistinguishable from their Bright Court kin, others as dark as night—hair and eyes and sometimes even skin. Right at the front Rhoslyn and Pasgen sat rigidly erect. This prominent positioning could not harbor good news; they knew that in their bones.

  In knowing that, they were better informed than Vidal Dhu himself. He had not admitted it to anyone, even to Aurilia, who now sat beside him—in a slightly smaller throne, but a throne, not merely a chair, nonetheless—that he had not the faintest idea of why he had sent out the summons. When she had asked, he had shaken his head at her, as if he had a secret he did not wish to divulge. Now, however, he had nothing to say to the assembled horde—