Underhill was a game, a dream, a place where the forbidden and impossible could happen. It was a momentary escape from real life and should be enjoyed as such. Yet Elizabeth did not have the smallest desire to live in the dream for more than a short time. Longer, it would bore her to death.
Sliding an arm around Denno’s waist to balance herself, Elizabeth offered up a small prayer of thanks to the real God for allowing her this delightful distraction. That thought sent a chill and then a flush of warmth through her. She knew, although even here Underhill she did not dare articulate the idea clearly, that this had been given her to support her in a time when duty and responsibility would grow so heavy as to crush her if some relief were not offered.
A flash of gold broke her thoughts and drew her attention to Aleneil, who floated up into Ystwyth’s saddle. The ribbons glittered, even in the moonless, sunless twilight, shining, rising up and then drifting down around her. Magic. Elizabeth grinned, watching as the ribbons fell in such a way that Aleneil’s legs were not completely exposed, only a tempting glimpse of white skin being revealed now and again.
The usual few strides of the elvensteeds brought them the seemingly long distance from the Summer Palace to the Gate of Logres. Ystwyth mounted the white, blue-veined marble under the high dome of opal lace supported on the pillars of chalcedony and promptly disappeared. Miralys followed. Elizabeth was a trifle surprised when they did not even pause a moment for Denoriel to visualize his destination, but then dismissed the puzzlement. Likely Oberon had bespelled every pattern holder in Underhill to bring Sidhe to the site of the ball.
That they had arrived where they should was immediately apparent. Before them stretched an enormous field of the soft moss starred with small white flowers that seemed to cover the ground in Logres and Avalon. Far ahead Elizabeth saw the darkness of a large building, but it was too distant to make out any details. She looked down at where Ystwyth preceded them, noting with some amusement that the moss, soft as it looked and felt, never bruised or broke no matter the weight that compressed it.
Suddenly very happy over this very minor example of the silly dreamlike quality of Underhill, Elizabeth rubbed her face against Denno’s back, and he turned his head and kissed her forehead. Elizabeth started to raise her face to bring their lips together, but they had come close enough for her to see the building and the garden in front of it and she could not help drawing in an awed breath.
The palace, for it could be nothing else, was no more than three stories high but seemed to stretch a mile on each side of the huge, open double doors. It glowed a pale gold, lighted by thousands and thousands of small lights. On each end were four towers, topped by onion-shaped domes and in the center was a single structure, rising another five levels, surrounded by four smaller towers, each topped with an onion dome. The front of the building was protected by a dozen pillars connected by wide arches, which supported the overhanging third story of the building.
There were details that Elizabeth could see as they drew closer which were well worthy of examination, but her attention was drawn to the people, strolling in the garden, walking up the broad stairs to enter the building while others came down. In a sense it was not much of a garden. Mostly it was more of the ubiquitous moss with only a few beds of flowers around a handsome but not spectacular fountain.
The fountain was a boundary of some kind for Miralys stopped there and Denno helped Elizabeth down and then dismounted. Off in the distance to right and left Elizabeth could see many other elvensteeds, and Miralys and Ystwyth, from whom Aleneil had dismounted, started off to join their fellow creatures.
“Good,” Aleneil said, “the musicians haven’t set up yet so we are early. I said I’d meet Ilar at the fountain—”
“Have you been here before?” Denoriel asked, sounding surprised.
“Of course not. You know Oberon creates a different palace and garden for each ball, but—” she giggled “—there is always a fountain.”
“So there is,” a new voice said.
It was a pleasant tenor, lighter than Denno’s strong baritone, and the Sidhe who had spoken was somewhat shorter and more slender. His hair was a paler gold, his eyes also a lighter green than Denno’s vivid emerald, but his smile was very sweet and a more than usually warm expression made his face attractive.
He held out his hand to Aleneil and said, “Magnificent. Exquisite. I have never seen the like of that gown.” He then kissed the hand Aleneil had placed in his.
“This,” Aleneil said, “is Ilar from Elfhame Cymry.”
As Aleneil introduced him, he turned his head to look at Elizabeth. “What a lovely mortal child. Wherever did you find her?”
“This is the Lady Elizabeth, the late King Henry of England’s daughter. By permission of Queen Titania she is welcome to visit Underhill when it pleases her.” Denoriel’s voice was cold and hard and his hand came down firmly on Elizabeth’s shoulder.
“Ah,” Ilar said, dropping the hand he had raised as if to take hold of Elizabeth. “She is yours, Prince Denoriel.”
“She is her own,” Elizabeth said sharply. Although she was startled by hearing the new Sidhe name Denno a prince, she had a more important point to make. “Prince Denoriel is my friend and my protector, for which I am sometimes grateful—” she glanced sidelong at Denno “—and sometimes not. But I belong to no one except myself.”
Ilar looked startled but took his cue from Aleneil’s slight laugh and Denoriel’s resigned sigh, both forms of acceptance of Elizabeth’s words, and shrugged slightly. Then dismissing an awkward subject, he gestured widely around the grounds and toward the glowing palace.
“I think King Oberon has outdone himself this time. Shall we go in and see what marvels he has made for us to wonder at?”
All the rest murmured agreement and Denoriel stepped to the side and placed Elizabeth’s hand on his arm. However they had hardly taken five steps to go around the fountain toward the palace, when the sound of hooves made them draw together. An elvensteed stopped almost too close to their group and someone leapt down, crying, “Bess.”
Elizabeth promptly turned away from Denoriel. “Da!”
“Oh, my love,” Harry FitzRoy exclaimed, “you are a woman, a fine lady. Where is my little girl gone?”
“She is still right here,” Elizabeth said, rushing into FitzRoy’s outstretched arms. “I will never be too grown up for a cuddle from my Da.”
Ilar was staring at Harry with disbelief as Lady Aeron nudged him gently. He turned, with an arm still around Elizabeth, to put a kiss on the elvensteed’s muzzle and stroke his cheek down hers. Lady Aeron, now seemingly satisfied, loped off in the direction Miralys and Ystwyth had taken.
“Another mortal?” Ilar murmured to Aleneil. “A mortal with an elvensteed? I did not think that was possible.”
“Elvensteeds do as they like. Lady Aeron has always been Harry’s from when Denoriel was forced to bring him Underhill to save his life when he was a child. Harry is also King Henry’s get, but outside of the mortal custom of marriage.”
Denoriel had joined Harry and Elizabeth and Harry was laughing and shaking his head about something Denoriel said. The movement disarranged his hair, and Oberon’s blue star shone clear on his forehead. Ilar’s eyes widened again.
“You of Logres are well entangled with King Henry’s children.” But before Aleneil could answer, Ilar nodded. “Yes. I remember. One of our FarSeers Saw that three of that king’s children would rule.”
“All three?” Aleneil asked eagerly.
Ilar shook his head. “I think so, but it matters very little to us in Cymry who rules in Logres so I am afraid I did not pay attention. I will ask, if you would like me to, when I return home.” He stiffened and turned his head. “Ah, the musicians are tuning their instruments. There will be dancing soon.”
The sounds preliminary to music drew the attention of the other three, and Denoriel stepped over to Ilar and Aleneil to tell them to go ahead as he, Harry, and Elizabeth were wa
iting for Mwynwen who had been delayed by a last-minute patient. However, they had hardly started toward the palace again when the healer arrived. When she had dismounted and shaken out the many layers of filmy gauze that made up her gown, the first strains of a galliard were floating over the garden. Couples were forming. Harry took Mwynwen’s hand and bowed over it.
“Lady, will you dance?” he asked.
“Why not?” Mwynwen replied.
The tone of her voice drew Denoriel’s eyes to her face. It was pleasant and indulgent—a friend accepting a pleasant offer from a friend. There was none of the delight, the faint excitement that colored an exchange by lovers. Afraid to look at Harry and see pain or incomprehension in his face, Denoriel turned to Elizabeth and took her hand.
“And you, my lady?” he asked.
Her eyes were bright gold and a very faint color tinged her normally pale cheeks. The delight, the excitement—a lover’s welcome to his question—were there. Denoriel raised her hand to his lips.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, “yes I will, thank you.”
Chapter 22
A broad set of steps of some gleaming gold-colored marble under each broad arch led to a wide portico on which guests could stroll to the open doors of the palace. On one of the sets of steps, Vidal and Aurilia stood with three of the cleverest and most vicious Dark Sidhe.
Vidal had abandoned his usual dark-haired and dark-eyed visage—even he recognized he would be a travesty in Oberon’s presence. He was presently indistinguishable from any of the hundreds of male Sidhe at the ball. His hair was blonde, his eyes green, his ears moderately large and pointed.
Aurilia, who also did not want to draw attention to herself, had damped down the spectacular beauty she most often wore. She was beautiful, of course; all Sidhe were beautiful, but there was nothing exceptional about her appearance or that of their three companions.
All of the Dark Sidhe, who had been informed about Elizabeth and her likely companions, were watching as Elizabeth danced down the columns of pairs, now partnered by Ilar while Denoriel danced with Mwynwen and Aleneil with Harry. They circled, whirled round, and then bowed, all gasping slightly with effort. The galliard started slowly and with great dignity, but the musicians steadily increased the tempo of their music and after a time the dance turned nearly into a rout.
The last circling would have brought a new change of partners, but Denoriel nipped Elizabeth out of the line and held her away from the new forming set, laughing and saying that if she were not exhausted she should be. Aleneil and Ilar also stepped to the side and Mwynwen, breathing hard, leaned on the arm Harry had extended to her.
“Them,” Vidal said. “All of them, but specially the man with the human girl. I almost did not recognize him. He has made himself look younger and removed the marks of his living in the mortal world. He is the Denoriel of whom I told you and his death is worth a domain of your own with servants to care for it.”
“Perhaps the prize would not be worth the doing,” Piteka, the tallest of the Dark Sidhe said, his mouth twisting. “He is in some strongly warded company. One wears Oberon’s own mark.”
“Piteka, I am not asking you to try to kill FitzRoy,” Vidal snarled. “No one cares about FitzRoy anymore anyhow. He is dead in the mortal world and cannot help that accursed Elizabeth to the throne. Denoriel is only an ordinary member of the Bright Court with no special protections.”
“From what I hear,” Goeel, the skeletally thin Sidhe next to Aurilia, said, “he has protection enough without any help. He was the foremost rider in Koronos’ Hunt, always sent to face the mortals with iron weapons.”
Vidal laughed harshly. “His resistance to iron will not help him Underhill. He has not hunted for years, even with Koronos’ tame pack. I doubt he has drawn a sword since then, too. He is, as you can see, duty bound to the mortal girl and spends all his time in the mortal world as a merchant watching over her. Merchants are not known for feats of arms.”
Chenga, the one other female Dark Sidhe with them, shuddered. “I will not go into the mortal world. Not even for a domain.”
“No one is asking you to go there,” Vidal snapped.
“Who is Aleneil with?” Aurilia asked before any of the others could speak.
Vidal frowned as he studied Aleneil’s companion. “From his looks I would say he is Cymry. I think the clothing is handmade rather than kenned. The Cymry are letting their magic slip more and more, keeping hordes of mortals to act as servants and artisans and, I suppose, playthings.”
“Ohhh?” Aurilia drew out the word. “Weak in magic, are they? It might be easy enough to visit Elfhame Cymry without saying exactly from where one comes. Do you think Aleneil might go there with her Cymry friend? We need her dead also.”
Chenga now made a wordless, interested noise. “I would not mind going to Cymry,” she said. “If this Aleneil comes there, an accident might befall her among all those clumsy human folk, and the blame would fall on the Cymry.”
“An excellent notion,” Vidal said, sounding pleased, “but do not be rid of her too soon. I told you that Aleneil is Denoriel’s twin sister. See if you can befriend her.”
“I need a reason.”
Aurilia grinned, showing her sharpened teeth. “Tell her you have a hunger for her brother. Try to get her to bring Denoriel to Cymry. We could set a magic trap for them both. Likely the Cymry would never notice it.”
Chenga looked after Denoriel. The whole party had started up the stairs under a different arch and were plainly going into the palace to seek refreshment or to join a new set of dancers.
“Perhaps,” she said, leering slightly, “I will go and introduce myself to him now. It cannot take much to win him away from that scrawny mortal. There is nothing to her except the red hair.”
“I do not think you will succeed,” Aurilia said with a sidelong glance at Chenga.
Actually she didn’t think that Denoriel would be interested in the Dark Sidhe’s rather tattered charms, but to speak her doubt would act as a challenge. Chenga refused to accept the fact of her fading attraction. When Denoriel did not respond she would be angered and better motivated to see him dead.
“I know how to draw a Sidhe,” Chenga snapped. “That little mortal cannot hold much interest for him. Vidal said before that she was his duty and he is dutiful—” she wrinkled her nose as if over a bad smell “—but I will convince him that by bending time a little he will have his pleasure and not violate his duty.”
Aurilia shrugged. “You have good binding spells, but you cannot cast them here. Perhaps if you can get him to dance with you and whisper to him that you have heard of some threat to his charge, he would come to meet you. Elfhame Cymry will seem safe enough to him.”
“Yes. Even if you cannot speak to Denoriel, you should go to Cymry,” Vidal said suddenly. “See if you can find a place to live among them, but you must be careful and not harm their mortals—”
“Not harm the mortals!” Chenga interrupted furiously. “You know I cannot draw power from the Bright ways any longer. If I cannot draw from the pain and misery of their horde of mortals, where will I find strength to live?”
“You do not need to live there,” Vidal said, smiling now. “You need only bind the mortals in your living place to watch and listen. When they learn of Aleneil or Denoriel coming—and most especially if they bring with them the mortal Elizabeth, they must dispatch a messenger to you. I will provide the messengers. Then we can go to Cymry. They are very insular in that elfhame and do not often come to Oberon’s attention. He will not know of the watch you keep.”
“And will not know that the Dark Court is in any way involved,” Aurilia remarked with enthusiasm. “But we must try to get them all together. One accident is … an accident. If there were any blame, it would fall upon those of Elfhame Cymry. Two accidents will not be overlooked. So hold your hand until you are sure. If we succeed, I will give you some spells that will make you utterly irresistible to any creature.”
C
henga glanced at Aurilia without either gratitude or trust, but she did not reply to her. Instead she held out her hand to the tall Sidhe. “Come, Piteka, let us go inside and see what our quarry is doing.”
Rhoslyn had also come to the ball. She had tried to get Pasgen to accompany her, but he would not. He was still worried about the “sentient” Unformed land, although he had decided that it was not the land itself that was drawing him to it but his own insatiable curiosity. He had been able to assuage that somewhat by making several visits to Elfhame Elder-Elf where he had met with Gaenor. She, he found, had a curiosity at least equal to his own but better controlled by the eons she had lived. Still, she was willing, even eager, to accompany him in his testing of the Unformed lands and in capturing any wisps of mist that seemed different.
Although she was not happy about appearing all alone at a ball she knew would be populated mostly by Bright Court Sidhe, she could not resist the lure of the beauty she knew she would see, of the music she would hear, of the laughter and light spirits. She could be quiet, she thought, and watch from the sidelines. Perhaps she would see Mwynwen or Aleneil, who would be willing to exchange a few words with her.
She did not at first see anyone she knew, and shrank against an elaborately carved pillar in view of the doorway. Beyond her, the pillars, all glowing with lights set into the leaves that made up the top of the shafts, marched in a triple column all the way around the huge room. They supported an intricate vaulted ceiling from which hung more lights. And each of the pillars, Rhoslyn realized, looking as far as she could see and knowing they continued farther, was individually carved with birds and beasts and plants and Sidhe, and everything beautiful and monstrous, that lived Underhill.
The carvings were so fascinating that Rhoslyn forgot she was supposed to be keeping herself unnoticed. She stepped out from her shelter and was about to move to the next pillar, when a particularly willowy Sidhe glided up to her and touched her hand.
By Slanderous Tongues Page 35
