And Less Than Kind

by Mercedes Lackey

  "Is that really grass?" he asked.

  "How would I know?" Gaenor said. "It must be some five thousand years since I last visited the mortal world."

  "And I have never gone," Hafwen said.

  "I need to know," Pasgen said. "Keep watch and ready a strong shield to hold back the mist if necessary." He stood still a moment, looking out into the mist. "I do not think any defense will be necessary."

  "Why do you need to know?" Gaenor asked suspiciously. She had been warned repeatedly by Rhoslyn about Pasgen's insatiable curiosity, which regularly drove him into dangerous situations.

  "There is no grass Underhill," Pasgen said, "so from where did the mist learn of grass? And why is it here?"

  Almost as if in answer to Pasgen's question, both elvensteeds stepped off the platform onto the grass and began to graze. Pasgen looked from Hafwen to Gaenor and back again. "Could it have learned from the elvensteeds?

  Both women shook their heads in unison. "Who knows what the elvensteeds can do? In all the years Nuin and I have been together, I have found no reason, no pattern in what she can do . . . or, perhaps, will do, and what she will not."

  "That is true for me also," Hafwen said. "I am sure that they are capable of speaking to us, yet I have never heard of any Sidhe who has had direct communication with an elvensteed."

  "Pictures," Pasgen offered. "I think Denoriel said he had once received a picture from Miralys."

  "I would be grateful for so much," Gaenor said rather dryly, but she was looking out toward the mist, which was, as it had been for some while, well withdrawn from the Gate platform.

  Pasgen laughed. "Then I don't need to waste any more thought on that solution to the problem. Still, I want to go down and see for myself. I don't think there's any danger, but do ready a shield."

  Again Pasgen looked from Gaenor to Hafwen. For a moment he got no response, then Gaenor sighed and Hafwen nodded. Pasgen smiled at them. Another moment and both women nodded; each had a shield ready.

  The shields seemed a work of supererogation. As soon as Pasgen stepped off the Gate platform, the mist rolled farther back as if in invitation.

  "Don't go, Pasgen," Hafwen called. "Come back. It is aware of you."

  Pasgen started to turn back toward the Gate platform but stopped abruptly. The retreat of the mist had revealed a house . . . well, what was meant Pasgen was sure to be a dwelling of some sort. It was a weird mixture of cottage, manor-house, and palace. Oddly, the manor house and palace portions seemed to be better defined than the frontmost part, which had a thatched roof and small windows with diamond-shaped panes of glass. Behind that rose the two story height of a brick-wrought manor. Suddenly Pasgen knew where he had seen that manor before; it was Elizabeth's manor of Hatfield. And behind that were the fanciful turrets that Pasgen knew could exist only Underhill and which he had last seen on the palace in Rhoslyn's domain.

  At the front of the cottage was an area of grass broken by a graveled path, to each side of which was what must be what the mist thought were beds of flowers. Those, however, were not individual plants but simply masses of color atop a mass of green. The colors were familiar as, now that he looked more carefully, was the cottage. Yes, Pasgen knew it. It was Gaenor's cottage in Elfhame Elder-Elf.

  The whole making was pathetic, as the gold- and red-haired dolls had been pathetic. Pasgen took a step in the direction of the "garden."

  "Pasgen!" Hafwen's voice was high and urgent.

  He turned at once, fearing that while his attention had been on the "house" the mist was attempting to attack Hafwen and Gaenor. However, there was not even a small wisp near the Gate platform, and from the way Hafwen was stretching her hands toward him, it was he she feared for.

  "No, it's all right," Pasgen called back. "It's just . . . I really must see what is inside that house thing."

  "Pasgen, do not be a fool," Gaenor said. "It has set some kind of trap to attract you. Come back here."

  "The other creations, the gold-haired and red-haired dolls, were no trap," Pasgen protested.

  "No? What do you call what happened to Vidal Dhu?"

  Pasgen laughed and shook his head. "I call it Vidal's fault. He attacked the red-haired doll. I was near both those dolls several times, once when a lion had disemboweled the gold-haired creature, and no ill befell me."

  "Your sister will chop us both up into small pieces if you are trapped here," Hafwen said.

  He smiled at Hafwen, but shook his head. "I . . . it is trying so hard," he said.

  His voice was not quite steady as bitter memories washed over him, bitter memories of the cold indifference and frequent cruelty of his teachers of magic in the Dark Court. When he thought back, it was not the cruelty, the punishments for failure or for spells the teachers did not approve, that hurt him. It was the total lack of interest in his successes and experiments.

  If it had not been for his mother and Rhoslyn, he would have turned to the Dark in truth, taking his only pleasure from the pain and misery of others. But Llanelli had marveled over his spell-casting, making him feel proud, and Rhoslyn had matched him spell for spell—or if she could not do that, excelled in her own way by making.

  Hafwen started to come down off the platform and Pasgen shouted for her to stop. "I don't think we should offer it two of us," he said. "You and Gaenor try to get across to it that if it does not let me go no one will ever come here again."

  "He's right," Gaenor said. "I don't feel anything from it except . . . maybe . . . hope? But I don't think we should offer too much temptation."

  "I've got shields up too," Pasgen said. "Believe me, I'm very good at shields. Living in the Dark Court tends to teach you that. If it tries to wrap me, I think I'd be able to wriggle free under the shield. And I'll be very careful not to damage anything. I promise I won't trample the flower beds or take anything from the house."

  "Very well," Hafwen agreed reluctantly, "but don't stay too long." Then she sighed. "I know what is long to us may seem like ten breaths to you, but if you don't come out when I call, I'm going straight to Oberon and tell him about this."

  Pasgen lifted a hand in salute and turned eagerly toward the graveled path, which obligingly extended itself in his direction. He drew a deep breath as he stepped onto it, but nothing happened, except that the gravel was soft and sort of flattened when he stepped on it.

  "Ah," he said, "the look is right—did you take that from Elizabeth's mind?" He made an image of Elizabeth in his head. "But gravel is hard and sharp-edged."

  There was a moment of disorientation as the path dissolved under him. Plainly the mist had no idea what hard and sharp-edged meant.

  "Pasgen!"

  He heard Gaenor's voice, tight with anxiety and turned around toward the Gate. "No, it's all right," he called. "I told it the path wasn't right, and it is correcting it."

  But it couldn't correct without knowing how. Pasgen took another deep breath and kenned a handful of gravel. He had a moment of panic as he put the gravel on the . . . whatever he was standing on, hoping he wouldn't be buried in gravel in the next moment.

  That did not happen. Ahead of him and behind him, but not where his feet were planted, gravel spread on a remade path. Pasgen let out the breath he had been holding and walked forward. He passed the blurred areas of color and green, keeping his mind carefully neutral. He simply did not know enough about flowers to try to image a bed of them or ken even one and he was afraid to criticize what he could not suggest a way to mend.

  Then he was at the house. He reached for the doorknob, but it, like the gravel, was soft and deformed in his hand. There was no way it could be used to open the door.

  "In?" he said.

  The door melted away.

  "Pasgen!" That was Hafwen. He turned toward the Gate again. "Don't you dare!" she called. "Don't you dare go in that house where we can't see you."

  He might have tried to argue, but from the open doorway he could see that there was not much sense in going into the house. There did n
ot seem to be any walls or any furniture. On the floor near one of the small windows was a patch of brightness, as if sunlight were shining through it. That must be an image the mist took from Gaenor's mind.

  He looked into the empty space. "I can't help you any more now," he said. "I am not a maker. I have a sister who is a maker. I cannot bring her here to you now. She is doing something very important to the Sidhe. Oh, I am Sidhe as are those others on the Gate. As soon as I can, I will ask my sister to come here."

  And suddenly, before him hung the image of Elizabeth he had offered when he asked about the gravel. For a moment he was frightened, but as soon as he reacted, the image disappeared and he was not bound; his shields felt no assault. Then he understood. He had been talking about bringing Rhoslyn and he had identified himself and Hafwen and Gaenor as Sidhe. The mist was asking about Elizabeth.

  "Pasgen!" Hafwen called again.

  "Wait. I'm quite free and I'll come in just a moment. I think I am communicating with the mist."

  "I will count one hundred. Then you start back," Gaenor said.

  Elizabeth. It was Elizabeth who had asked the mist to make a lion. That lion was not soft and easily deformed. It was so real a lion that it had killed two men and disemboweled the blond-haired doll. The kitten she wanted had also been real, real enough to trade for something in one of the markets.

  "Elizabeth. You want Elizabeth?" The image of Elizabeth flashed briefly. "Elizabeth is mortal. She does not live with us Underhill. However, if she is allowed to visit again, I will try to bring her. I do not promise . . . as if you know what a promise is . . . but I will try. I must go now or my escort will do something very bad."

  He turned and then gasped. There was a sudden resistance to his movement, a pressure on his shield. Before he could call up a counterspell or cry "Let me go," the pressure was gone. Pasgen completed his turn and began to walk toward the Gate. Nothing touched him.

  When he stepped up onto the Gate platform, Gaenor said, "What happened? You started to turn toward us and suddenly stopped."

  Pasgen hesitated. "You will believe I am quite mad," he said slowly, "but I think . . . I think the mist embraced me."

  There was an absolute silence. Gaenor and Hafwen looked at each other, then both looked at Pasgen. He shrugged. The elvensteeds stopped grazing. Both mounted the Gate platform, but Talfan watched Pasgen again as she made the second saddle. Gaenor activated the Gate.

  Elizabeth was growing more and more uneasy as the weeks passed. Several times since her "conversion" in September she believed attempts had been made on her life and neither she nor Lady Alana had any idea of who was guilty. Nonetheless, it was not fear of assassination that made her shiver in the December chill of the chapel. She ignored the all-too-familiar sounds of still another Mass and reviewed the steady disintegration of her relationship with her sister.

  At the beginning of August Elizabeth had some hope that Mary would not insist on her conversion to Catholicism. Mary herself had been so tormented over her faith that Elizabeth thought she might have sympathy for another's conviction. This delusion lasted a little while, largely because the Emperor Charles, through Renard, advised Mary to move slowly in religious matters.

  Mary was willing to take that advice because she was still convinced that all of England had suffered as she had. She truly believed that the moment they were released from forced acceptance of Protestantism the people would flock back to the Catholic rite with tears of joy. Even two weeks later when priests who tried to say Mass were assaulted, Mary issued a proclamation stating her intention to practice openly the faith she had held all her life but offering not to compel or constrain the consciences of others. She believed the people only needed a little time to consider before they embraced Catholicism once more.

  At that time, buoyed up by the relief generated by Mary's warm welcome, Elizabeth hoped that if she made no show of her reformist tendencies and was sufficiently inconspicuous, Mary would ignore their differences. She really knew better but did not want to face the fact that it was impossible for the queen and her heir to worship by different rites. For a few days her false hopes were supported because the Imperial ambassadors convinced Mary that to give King Edward a Catholic funeral would result in riots.

  Grudgingly Mary agreed that Archbishop Cranmer should be permitted to bury Edward in Westminster Abbey using the English funeral service, but she would not attend. To satisfy her conscience, Mary and her household would listen to a High Requiem Mass in the chapel of the White Tower on the day Edward was buried. Then, openly, in full Court, in her deep, loud voice, Mary invited Elizabeth to the Requiem Mass.

  Elizabeth remembered her surprise, remembered staring, eyes and mouth open. She knew that Mary must at some time invite her to worship at a Mass and had all kinds of clever evasions worked out, but she had not expected Mary to try to make her commit herself so soon or so publicly or to use Edward's funeral as a trap. At least the shock had not frozen her mind and she made the shock work to her advantage. Elizabeth closed her mouth, swallowed, and allowed tears to flood her widened eyes.

  "I cannot," Elizabeth choked out.

  "Why can you not?" Mary asked, her voice louder and deeper than ever.

  One could almost see the ears of the courtiers perk up as they heard Mary's emphasis; she was implying Elizabeth would not rather than could not.

  "Because I loved him so," Elizabeth said, allowing her tears to overflow and her voice to catch on a sob, but making sure it carried clearly. "And because Edward would have hated a Mass."

  Still weeping freely Elizabeth went down on her knees to show her submission. She was surprised at how hard it was. She had bowed to Edward without the smallest reservation, with a warm satisfaction. Now she was trembling with angry resistance—but no one realized that. Everyone thought she was shaking with grief.

  Around her the Court sighed and murmured sympathy. Elizabeth's deep affection for her brother was well known; many of the Court had seen them together when Elizabeth visited, had heard their young king utter a rare laugh when his sister was with him.

  "Your Majesty," Elizabeth cried, "wrong or right, Edward believed in the reformist rite. I could not . . . I could not pay homage to his memory with prayers he would have hated."

  "So you will go to Westminster to see him buried with unhallowed prayers in an heretical rite?" Mary challenged.

  Elizabeth would no more take up that challenge than try to fly. She would have liked to say a last fare well to her dear little brother but he was dead and could not be hurt, whereas she could be called traitor or heretic for defending Protestant belief to her fanatically Catholic sister.

  "No, madam," she murmured. "I have no need to make a show of my loss. I did not see my father buried. I will mourn King Edward as I mourned King Henry, quietly, in my own chamber."

  "Very well." Mary's voice was somewhat softer and she stretched out a hand to sign for Elizabeth to rise. But she did not touch her sister in sympathy or consolation, just walked away.

  "That was very clever, indeed."

  A man's voice just behind Elizabeth's shoulder. She started and turned her head. Kat and Lady Alana closed on her to help her to her feet. Over her shoulder she saw Stephen Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, smiling at her. It was not a pleasant smile.

  Elizabeth's teeth snapped together. She did not need Bishop Gardiner explaining aloud in the hearing of those courtiers who were near them how skillfully she had avoided attendance at Mass without implying she herself objected to it. For the moment she had the Court's sympathy and she intended to keep it. The bishop was already urging Mary to depress Elizabeth's consequence. She owed him neither truth nor more courtesy than he offered her.

  "Clever?" Elizabeth repeated in a shaken, puzzled voice.

  She took a half step fully to face the bishop and stopped dead in her tracks. Perforce Gardiner had to stop too unless he wanted to push her aside, and that he dared not do; she was the queen's sister and the next highest lady in the lan
d. The distance between them and Mary widened. The space was quickly filled by courtiers more desirous of being close to the queen than hearing the exchange between Gardiner and Elizabeth.

  The movement of the courtiers kept Gardiner from making any comment to the queen on the plausibility of Elizabeth's remarks. She knew it would give him considerable satisfaction to spoil the small sympathy she had created between herself and Mary. Mary had been fond of Edward too, and seeing Elizabeth weep for him had moved her. Finally, the widening space between them decreased any danger of Mary again pressing Elizabeth to attend the Mass or asking any further questions.

  Before the bishop could step around her or speak again, Elizabeth found a tone of quiet outrage, stiffening and drawing herself even more erect to say, "You think I am using my brother's death to be clever, my lord bishop? That I do not mourn him? I loved my brother."