Ill Met by Moonlight

by Mercedes Lackey

  Pasgen swallowed hard, clenched his jaw, and reminded himself that—that was then, this is now. Vidal would do no such thing. Pasgen knew he had been close to matching Vidal’s power before the disaster, and he had spent his years in learning new magic and finding new sources of power, while Vidal had been lying insensate, unable to learn or do anything. Vidal could do nothing to harm Rhoslyn that he, himself, could not counter … unless Vidal had also spent the years in growing stronger. And how could he? Surely the time had passed in weakness and pain.

  As Pasgen set his foot on the first step of the portico that enclosed the castle door, it opened and two of Rhoslyn’s constructs barred the way, standing and watching him. He was surprised. All of Rhoslyn’s constructs knew him and all had been instructed to let him pass without hindrance.

  “Who are you?” one of the constructs asked. “What do you want here?”

  “I am Pasgen Peblig Rodrig Silverhair,” he replied. “I am Lady Rhoslyn’s brother and I have free passage into the lady’s home. Are you new-made that you do not know me?”

  It was impossible to tell one of Rhoslyn’s constructs from another, except by the ribbons around their necks. They all looked like starveling girl children with huge eyes and small mouths. But those pursed lips could open wide as a lion’s maw and show teeth that were as long and pointed as any wolf’s. And the long, thin fingers on their sticklike arms … Pasgen had seen those fingers slice up an ogre as if he were a cheese.

  For a long moment the constructs stared at each other in silence and Pasgen began to debate in his mind whether he could destroy them before they wounded him … and what his sister might do to him if he destroyed her toys.

  Then Rhoslyn was there, stepping out of a shadow as if she had been conjured.

  “Pasgen,” she said, and looked at her constructs. “What ails you? Do you not know my brother?”

  “Yes, lady,” the girl with the yellow ribbon whispered, flexing her hands, “but this one is not the same. He has two hearts.”

  As Denoriel passed through the door to Aleneil’s house, he wondered whether Elfhame Avalon was not just a bit too open to passersby. Elfhame Logres was open too—the gardens, woods, and meadows, but the palace Llachar Lle had defenses. Even his own apartment inside the palace had a door that would exclude any who had not been sealed into its memory.

  Of course with the Academicia in Avalon where most of the Magus Majors lived and worked, an inimical intruder would not last long. Not to mention what King Oberon and Queen Titania could do should anyone be foolish enough to invade the place …

  Denoriel found himself smiling, and relaxed; he was being foolishly protective. Surely he did not need to be concerned for the safety of his precious sister and Avalon. He was still smiling when Aleneil stepped from the doorway of her solar. She smiled at him, and then laughed aloud.

  “I guessed you would be coming here as soon as Mwynwen told you, but so quickly …” She frowned anxiously. “Oh, you didn’t make a Gate, did you?”

  “No, no. I will go strictly by the rules. I remember all too well what happened two years ago when I carelessly tried to light a candle. I have no desire at all to feel again as if every vein in my body is afire.” He grinned at her. “Miralys brought me by his own sweet ways without regard to Gates or other Passages.”

  “Ah.” Aleneil turned and led the way into her solar. “I suppose the elvensteeds use magic, but it is something completely unlike our own.”

  “I think,” Denoriel replied, having had quite some time to actually think about such things and great need to actually do so, “that it is more that they are like otters that slice through the water of magic, and we are the poor ducks, paddling furiously across the top of it and doing as much splashing and churning as getting anywhere.”

  That made Aleneil laugh. “Oh, please. A swan at least! Well, thanks to Miralys, then. He must have felt your need.”

  He gave her a comical little bow.

  She smiled at her brother as he sat in his favorite chair, fingering the mother-of-pearl design inset into the arm, but she still felt concerned. The blue-green pattern of the cushions no longer picked up gold highlights from his hair; that was pure silver now. And there were small lines graven by pain and tension around the emerald eyes with their catlike pupils, and around his well-shaped mouth.

  “Are you sure you are well enough?” Aleneil asked. “I know Mwynwen must have said you were, and I suppose Treowth also approved, but—”

  His lips thinned. “I hope they are right. As I said, I do not enjoy being afire. But four years, Aleneil … eight long seasons. I am beginning to think I would rather not exist than be imprisoned and powerless for much longer.” He saw the distress on her face and reached forward toward the settle to pat her arm and smile. “I am sure Mwynwen erred on the side of caution rather than optimism.”

  “Unless your endless complaints wore down even Mwynwen’s patience,” Aleneil said, but she was smiling again.

  “And you do not give Treowth proper credit,” Denoriel said, grinning. “I know he is more concerned for his reputation and his skill in magic than for the welfare of any people, but it would reflect ill on him if his magic killed me.”

  Aleneil laughed aloud, making a gesture that waked a peculiar, invisible movement in the air. By the time she spoke again, a small table had appeared beside Denoriel’s chair bearing a flagon of his favorite wine and a delicate glass.

  “So, what is permitted you now?”

  “Passive magic. I may go through a Gate and visit the mortal world, so I want to see Elizabeth—and Harry wants me to see her. He worries about her …” He hesitated and then continued. “I don’t think Mwynwen likes his concern with Elizabeth. I think she fears he will want to return to the World Above and she does not want to tell him that he cannot, not really. Oh, for a few hours, even a day or two, but not to live. The elf-shot still poisons him and she must drain it every few weeks. I hope if I see the child and can assure him of her health and safety he will be more content.”

  “You think he will believe you more readily than me? I have been visiting her regularly all this time and telling him that she is safe and happy. She has a most loving governess in Katherine Champernowne. Blanche Parry is now chief of the maids and a close companion.”

  Aleneil caught her brother’s look of sudden concentration, and felt both alarmed and pleased. This was the first time in four mortal years that Denoriel had shown interest in the child they had all worked so hard to save.

  “Does Elizabeth know what Blanche is?” Denoriel asked. “As a babe Elizabeth could see through illusion. Can she still do that?”

  Aleneil sighed, for she had not been able to get as near to the child as she would have liked. “If she can, she does not speak of it. She is a strange, self-possessed, most unchildlike child and says very little … but I think she does know what Blanche is and values her accordingly. She has other safeguards too. Dunstan is still groom of her chamber. Likely in a few years the office will be given to some high-born nonentity, but the whole household depends on Dunstan. He will retain his authority if not his title.”

  “Remind me to tell him that Lord Denno will assure him his salary if he be superceded.”

  Aleneil smiled. “I think that just, but not necessary. He is besotted of the child, and so are Ladbroke and Tolliver, who keep her stable. None would overlook any danger to her and all of them swear that there has been no intrusion from Underhill in all this time.”

  He nodded briskly. “Good enough. Still, I need to become reacquainted with her. She liked me well enough when she was a babe, but nothing compared with what she felt for Harry. If your FarSeeing is true—and I have never known it not to be—you and I will be with her when she is crowned, so she must get to know me.”

  “Crowned.” Aleneil’s smile turned to a frown. “My brother, you must never forget that is only one of the Seeings. There are two others. One is only dull and disgusting, but the other is of the dull-haired queen w
ith the swollen belly. We all feel it. The Great Evil will grow inside her. If that comes to pass, I do not know if Underhill will survive. We must keep Elizabeth safe and in the line of succession. We must.”

  But now Denoriel straightened unconsciously in his chair, looking more like his old self—and a knight—than he had in many a season. And when he spoke, it was with all of the old certainty. “If we must, sister dear, then depend upon it. We will.”

  Chapter 2

  It took Aleneil a week to convince Katherine Champernowne, Elizabeth’s governess, that she should admit a foreign merchant to the little girl’s presence. That he was noble, connected to Hungarian royalty helped … a little. That he had been the duke of Richmond’s favorite—a fact attested to by several of King Henry’s courtiers—also helped, at least enough that Mistress Champernowne agreed to introduce him to Elizabeth. From there on, she said, it was up to Lady Elizabeth herself. She was perfectly capable of exchanging a few icy politenesses and ending the interview.

  On the day assigned, a bright but chilly Tuesday in late March, Denoriel passed through the old Gate Magus Major Treowth had established for him not far from Hatfield. The old palace was still a frequent residence for Lady Elizabeth, not princess now, but at least acknowledged as the illegitimate daughter of the king. For a time, some had hoped that Great Harry might claim otherwise, but he himself had stepped away from that abyss—he had recognized Elizabeth too openly and for too long to claim now that the girl was of another’s get. Miralys emerged from a patch of woods alongside a farm road. Aleneil on Ystwyth followed almost on Miralys’s heels.

  Aleneil’s frown of concern relaxed when Denoriel turned in his saddle to make a gesture of success. But he did not look at her long and had to struggle with his own expression before it gave her new cause for worry.

  Not that the strong magic of the Gate had harmed him. He was no more aware of it—perhaps less aware—than he had ever been. It was Aleneil he found it hard to look at. He could not get accustomed to her appearance as Mistress Alana. Aleneil was beautiful—all Sidhe were beautiful—and Mistress Alana offended his eyes. She was … well, not ugly; plain was the best one could say. Her hair was a dull, muddy brown, her eyes small and pale fringed with scanty eyebrows and eyelashes paler than her hair. Her complexion was sallow, her nose an undistinguished button, her lips pale, her teeth yellowed and crooked.

  It was true, however, Denoriel thought, as Ystwyth came alongside of Miralys at the place the farm track met the main road, that one did not dwell on Lady Alana’s face. Her person faded into the background of her exquisite garments.

  Just now, atop the muddy hair was a remarkable hat, perhaps a whisper ahead of the fashion but no more than a whisper. Lady Alana was never bold. Over her soft gold velvet coif—no woman went without a coif—was a round cap, a man’s cap, of umber velvet with a rolled edge striped in gold. Ear flaps of brown velvet, so heavily embroidered in gold that it was hard to discern the original shade, depended from the sides of the cap going around to fit the back of the head to confine her hair. And just above the ear flap on the right side of the cap, was a jaunty, sleek, red pheasant feather.

  Her riding dress was every bit as elegant as the cap. Over a high-necked chemise with a ruffled collar—the low, bare, square neckline most fashionable in women’s gowns would not be suitable for riding—Lady Alana wore something very like a man’s doublet in a warm brown and gold brocade. From under the doublet flowed a very rich umber velvet skirt embroidered in gold, split from waist to hem fore and aft for riding as were the several petticoats (Denoriel had not bothered to ask how many) that supported the skirt. The velvet was covered—to protect it from rain or mud splatters—with a heavily pleated brown canvas safeguard.

  Denoriel’s dress, although rich and elegant, could not compare in stylishness with hers. For comfort in riding, Denoriel wore a long-skirted doublet that came to midthigh of a deep rose velvet embroidered across the breast and around the neck in silver. The white shirt beneath it showed in small pleats at the neck and wrists where the full sleeves narrowed into a long, close cuff. Under the doublet were pale gray slops, also embroidered in silver, but they only showed when the wind blew back the skirt of the doublet. Long hose, gartered both above and below the knee were covered almost completely by tall boots, slit at the back and turned down to the knee.

  The costume was not as sumptuous as those he had often worn when he visited FitzRoy in company with George Boleyn, but George was long dead, and Elizabeth was living—at least at present—in less exalted state than FitzRoy had been. At present the king had a living legitimate son as his heir, and Elizabeth’s position was very uncertain.

  They paused at the entrance to the main road to make sure no one was coming along who might wonder what so elegant a pair had been doing up the farm track. Denoriel looked down at Aleneil and frowned.

  “You said Elizabeth rode. Not I hope on one of those lunatic sidesaddles that have become the fashion.”

  Aleneil shook her head. “Not for serious riding, no, and until now she has been kept too much in the background to ride in processions.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Serious riding? What can you mean? She is no more than eight years old.”

  Aleneil pursed her lips, and for the first time, looked just a trifle annoyed with him. “Nonetheless, she rides very well and loves the exercise, although her father has not yet given permission for her to go hunting.”

  “Hunting? A girl-child?”

  Denoriel couldn’t help himself; he goggled at Aleneil. It was one thing for an elven maiden to decide to take to the hunt and even to arms—there were, in fact, female knights, and woe betide him who thought them any less in prowess than the males! But a mortal girl-child? Hunting? Even the ladies hardly did more than genteelly toss a falcon into the air and permit their falconers to retrieve bird and quarry!

  But—what really worried Denoriel—to go hunting, in the half-wild woods, would give enemies more opportunities at the child than he cared to think about.

  Aleneil gave him a reproving frown. “Yes, indeed, and do not you dare quarrel with her about it or she will take you in dislike, and that would be a disaster. She is very tenacious of her likes and dislikes.”

  “But if it puts her in danger—”

  “Denor—I mean, Lord Denno,” Aleneil said sharply, “this child is not another Harry FitzRoy. Do not expect the same goodness, the same sweetness, from her. She learned many bitter lessons while you were healing and she does not give her trust for a smile and a hug.”

  The road was empty, and they moved out onto it, now riding side by side. “You sound almost as if you do not like her,” Denoriel said.

  “I don’t know that I do,” Aleneil admitted. “But young as she is, I respect her. And … and I am a little afraid of what she will become. There is a way that she can look at you that is—disturbingly calculating. Even now, every single person who has ever seen her remarks that she has great dignity.”

  Denoriel was not convinced. “Harry could be dignified too, but it was all outside. Inside he was a little boy who wanted to be loved.”

  There was a rather longer silence than Denoriel expected and he looked down at Aleneil, who sighed and shook her head.

  “I have no idea what is inside Elizabeth,” she said at last. “She will not let me close enough. I do not know that she has ever confided in anyone. I hope you will be able to forge some bond with her quickly, but you will not have much time.”

  “Why not? Did you not tell me that her governess was of an obliging nature, very romantic, and not too wise?” He smiled, confident in his ability to win over any mortal woman. “Surely I should be able to make her welcoming to me, especially as I am willing to contribute lavishly to the household expenses.”

  Aleneil shook her head. “Oh, Kat Champernowne is not the problem. You will wind her about your finger in a quarter of an hour. The trouble is that the king is planning to have all his children live together as soon as it is
judged that Edward is not likely to take any disease from the others.”

  “Will it matter?” Denoriel asked. “Norfolk’s children lived with Harry. In a way it was convenient because it was not so obvious that I was guarding Harry.”

  Aleneil sniffed with gentle disdain. “If you think Harry was well guarded after the attempt on his life, you will find that nothing compared with the guards and attendants around Edward. No one gets to see the boy except by the king’s own permission.”

  Denoriel shook his head. “But I don’t want to see Edward—”

  “Unfortunately, when the children are in the same household with the same tutors, Edward’s guards will guard Elizabeth too, just as Harry’s guards watched Norfolk’s children. It will not be easy to reach her. I do not know whether Kat will even be allowed to receive me so casually after the households are joined. You, being male, might have greater difficulty.”

  “Hmmm. But you think that if she takes to me, she will be able to … No, she is too young to have any influence.”

  “I do not know. She is … exceptional. However, what I meant was that if you find favor with her, she will remember and welcome you more gladly when the households are separated, as they will be from time to time.”

  They had reached the gate to Hatfield Palace by then and Denoriel made no reply, only smiling at the guard, who seemed to know Lady Alana quite well and nodded acceptance when she said that Lord Denno was expected. However, they did not ride straight up the wide road to the central courtyard. About two-thirds of the way along, she turned right onto a side path that took them to the east wing of the palace. Here a lesser courtyard was guarded by a familiar figure.