Very faintly, at an immense distance, Pasgen heard a woman screaming. He tried to remember whether he had trapped a woman in his sealed chamber and why he had done so, but his mind remained blank and the screaming was coming closer. No one had ever escaped from that chamber; thus the screaming woman must be loose in his house.
He tried to open his eyes, and when they seemed glued shut, he tried to raise his hand to wipe at them. It was at that moment that he realized he was in intense pain. He ached all over, as if he had been battered with clubs, and his right arm was exquisitely painful. But not as painful . . . ah . . . now he remembered. Not as painful as when he had tried to seize Elizabeth and her cross had burned him even through the silk sleeve.
Elizabeth? Had it been Elizabeth who destroyed his Gate and hurled him into emptiness? It was her voice that cried "Be gone," but the spell . . . that had been cast in a strong woman's voice. The maid. And the spell had shaken him, yes, but he could have withstood it, had withstood it, until the child had cried "Be gone," and a rush of burning power had torn him free and flung him away . . .
"Hush, Mother, hush. You can see he is breathing and the swelling of his hand is already going down."
That was Rhoslyn's voice. A cool cloth, damp and scented with lemon and verbena dabbed at his eyes, wiped his forehead and cheeks. The screaming had stopped.
Pasgen was beginning to put things together in his mind. That must have been Llanelli screaming. Pasgen felt irritated by his mother's senseless emotionalism—and then suddenly remembered the black void into which he had been falling and the vision of Llanelli's face to which he had clung. He made a tremendous effort, and at last, opened his eyes.
"Pasgen? Are you badly broken anywhere? Must I summon a healer?" Rhoslyn's voice was steady, but her eyes were enormous and her skin was shiny and pallid.
He had clung to the vision of Llanelli and been spewed out by whatever spell had reft him from the mortal world to wherever Llanelli was . . . that would be Rhoslyn's domain. Rhoslyn was caring for their mother. If a healer were summoned, the location of Rhoslyn's domain might be exposed.
"No," he whispered. "I do not need a healer."
"You are black and blue all over," Rhoslyn said, her voice now trembling slightly. "Are you sure nothing is broken? You have no injuries I cannot see? Can you feel pressure anywhere inside you?"
Pasgen closed his eyes again and considered his aches and pains. He hurt comprehensively, but the pain seemed to be on the surface, of flesh and bone. He felt no inner gnawing, no draining of strength as there must have been if he were bleeding inwardly. Actually, he thought, as he again opened his eyes, he felt somewhat stronger than he had when he first became aware.
Tentatively he tried to move one leg, the other. Both responded—not without complaint but without any sharp increase in agony. His left arm also lifted to his will; his right was less responsive, and a hot, red spark of pain lit just above his wrist. He inhaled sharply but realized that what he felt was much diminished from the white-hot agony that had seized on him in the garden at Hatfield Palace.
"I do not need a healer," Pasgen repeated.
"Then I will have one of my girls carry you to bed," Rhoslyn declared, her voice less uncertain. "No," she continued, when he started to lift a hand in protest, "You cannot continue to lie on the floor in the middle of mother's solar."
So it was his mother's image that had saved him from being lost in the void. He looked around for Llanelli, but she had disappeared. He sighed. Just as well. He dared not thank her for being his soul anchor because to do that he would have to tell her of the danger he had been in, which would frighten her and make her fuss over him, demanding that he never expose himself again. As if living itself was not in some way or another dangerous. As if living beneath Vidal Dhu's rule was not more dangerous than anything in the World Above!
Dark. Why was it so dark? A sharp pang of fear that he had been hurt worse than he believed ended when his eyes snapped open and he realized he had let his heavy lids fall. The first thing he saw was Crinlys, she of the violet neck ribbon, looking at him as if he were a slab of meat; her spider-leg fingers twitched.
"Bed will do me no good if I am tossed onto it like a sack of wheat," he said with irritation.
Rhoslyn smiled at him. "No, Crinlys will be gentle, I promise." She looked at the starveling construct. "Crinlys, lift my brother and carry him to the bed Lady Llanelli has made ready in the blue room. Gently! Very gently. As gently as if he was a baby bird. He is not to be jostled or bruised."
Crinlys knelt by Pasgen, stared at him for a moment, and just before he could protest her too-avid attention, slid her hands and arms under his body. He was twice or three times her weight, but she lifted him in a slow, smooth motion that caused him no discomfort, nestling his head against her shoulder so he would not need to support it himself.
Eurafal of the orange ribbon was waiting by the bed, Llanelli standing just behind her. Pasgen drew breath to speak, without having the slightest notion of what he would say, but Rhoslyn, who had followed them, took Llanelli's hand and led her out of the room. Before the door closed, he heard his mother demanding that a healer be sent for, but he assumed that Rhoslyn would win that argument.
Somehow the two constructs managed to remove his clothing without causing him much discomfort. Then he might have dozed for a while, although he was only aware of closing his eyes and opening them again. Rhoslyn was seated by the bed.
"What happened?" she asked when she saw he was awake. "You appeared in Mother's parlor and she screamed."
Pasgen blinked twice, aware that he was mostly free of pain. Cautiously, he stretched. His right arm was still sore and his body felt tender, but did not ache nor threaten to explode in more agony if he moved it. He asked in some surprise if Rhoslyn had taken up healing. She answered composedly that she had not, but that Llanelli knew some healing. Pasgen sighed and looked around, but Llanelli was not in the room.
"We have agreed that Mother will take the night watch," Rhoslyn said. "You will be asleep then and she will not wake you or trouble you with questions. Now, what happened?"
"Lady Elizabeth happened," he said, with weary resignation.
Rhoslyn shrank back into the chair, her eyes wide with horror. "What did you do?" she whispered.
"Nothing," he replied, more than a little irritated at the bald truth of the statement. "I never touched her. No, that's not true. When she turned to run away, I caught at her." He lifted his right arm from the bedclothes; it was still slightly swollen and where he had touched the cross, red blisters stood out on his white skin. "You need not waste any sympathy on Lady Elizabeth. I did her no harm. Rather, it was entirely the opposite."
"She was wearing FitzRoy's cross." Rhoslyn shuddered slightly. "I remember I could come no nearer than an arm's length to him when he was wearing it. And you touched it! But the cross could not have beaten you black and blue."
"No, that happened when they collapsed my Gate. The backlash . . ."
"They? What they?"
"The maid. I don't know her name but she was the one who damaged Aurelia. And . . . somehow Elizabeth helped her."
"Elizabeth?" Rhoslyn stared at him as if she suspected his mind had been damaged as well as his body. "Nonsense. Elizabeth is not quite eight years old, and a mere mortal child."
"Well, the maid was casting a spell. I felt it trying to shake me loose from my grip on the mortal world but I was holding against it until the child cried 'Be gone.' There was a . . . I'm not sure what. An explosion of power, I suppose. And I was flung away, flung into the void . . ." He stopped speaking, his voice not quite steady.
"Into the void?" Rhoslyn's voice had sunk to a whisper. "Such cruelty. Such viciousness. And she only a child."
Pasgen knew he should allow Rhoslyn to go on believing that Elizabeth had deliberately meant to consign him to the horror of fading slowly from life in the void. If Rhoslyn believed that, she would even help him dispose of the girl. But he could not. Something . . . something about the child . . . and Rhoslyn's pain, too, forced him to honesty.
"She did not consign me to the void," he said. "She had named no destination. I do not think she had any intention at all, save to fling me as far away from herself as possible." Having subdued the horrifying memory of that falling into nothingness, Pasgen managed a smile. "Likely she didn't know enough to say 'from whence you came.' But I admit I was as frightened as I have ever been. Like a babe, I called for mother, and the spell caught it and sent me to Llanelli."
Rhoslyn shook her head. "Are you sure it was Elizabeth who tore loose your Gate? It seems . . . She is so very young that I find it hard to believe."
Pasgen was silent, reconsidering what had happened in the garden at Hatfield. He remembered the pain that had made him release Elizabeth, remembered pushing her so she fell, remembered her threatening to stab him with her scissors, remembered his rage, his determination to break her neck. Then some flaming object had struck his cheek. He had heard the woman's voice chanting, had prepared to resist, to speak a counterspell, and a thin, high voice had cried "Be gone," and white lightning seemed to burst from the ground or from Elizabeth herself, and fling him away.
"I do not think," he said slowly, "that what the child did was part of the woman's spell. That had weakened my hold on my Gate and, yes, the command to 'be gone' became part of the spell, but the burst of power that collapsed the Gate and tore me loose from the mortal world . . . I think that was just a burst of panic, which fueled a tremendous release of power. The child is Talented, like her mother . . . ah, and untrained, too, like her mother. Like her mother. Hmm. I wonder . . ."
Rhoslyn narrowed her eyes. "What are you thinking, Pasgen? No one is going to execute an eight-year-old child for adultery or treason."
"Certainly not." Pasgen grinned suddenly. "But such a child might easily be removed from the succession, which would be sufficient for our purposes."
Rhoslyn sighed. "If the FarSeers then See only two futures for England, it will be enough. But as long as the vision of Elizabeth as queen persists . . ." She shook her head. "And I don't see how you will manage it. What could a child say or do that would be serious enough to get her disinherited?"
"About that I am not certain, but it will be easy enough for me to find out." He bit his lower lip in thought. "I said to you some time ago that Fagildo Otstargi should return to England and begin to tell fortunes and give advice again. As soon as my bruises are healed enough not to start gossip about who beat me, I will open Fagildo's house and send my card out to my old clients."
"Will they return after you left them with so little warning many years ago?" Rhoslyn raised a skeptical eyebrow, and Pasgen did not fault her for being skeptical.
He shrugged, slightly, and still felt an ache when he did so. "There is only one I really care about—Sir Thomas Wriothesley, who is now the king's secretary—and he will return both because my advice was very valuable to him and because I put a compulsion on him to favor Otstargi." He nodded. "I will have to forgo—for a while, at least—my hopes of breaking Denoriel's connection with the court." But at least such a move would satisfy Vidal Dhu's command to gather information about the World Above.
"Denoriel? What has he to do with this?"
Pasgen chuckled; even though it had gone wrong, the plan, at least, had been a good one. "I had disguised myself as Lord Denno—the persona he always used when he attached himself to Henry FitzRoy and has resumed to watch Elizabeth. I thought if I abducted her that Denno would be blamed and lose all his usefulness in the mortal world. And if the High King came to hear of it, Denoriel would have much to answer for."
"That was clever," Rhoslyn said almost purring approval. "I am so sorry you did not succeed. It would do our so noble half-brother good to be misspoken and banished."
She had never forgiven Denoriel for, as she believed, murdering the changeling she had created to replace Henry FitzRoy. Sometimes she would still dream of the sweet, loving child and wake up in tears. She remembered that horrible day too well and the unexpected power Denoriel had displayed. Her eyes narrowed.
"Wait, Pasgen. Are you sure that what collapsed your Gate came from within Elizabeth? Could that have been some latent spell that Denoriel attached to her or to some amulet that responded to the maid's spell?"
Pasgen stared at her for a moment, not really seeing her but trying to recall what had happened in those seconds before he had been battered and bruised and flung away. He could not pinpoint the cause of that burst of energy. It had seemed to come from the child, but that would also be true if there had been an amulet concealed about her.
Could an amulet survive such close contact with the iron cross? Pasgen could not answer that question, but he guessed now from Elizabeth's reaction to his suggestion that she cover the cross with the bespelled pouch that Denoriel did not do so. And that meant that Denoriel spent considerable time close to the child and the naked cross. And that meant that Denoriel could withstand the effect of cold iron . . . so perhaps he could devise an amulet that could also withstand the effect.
"It is possible," Pasgen said slowly. "It is more reasonable than that an eight-year-old child has such power. And if it is true, it will make dealing with her easier."
"Pasgen! You are not going to attempt to seize her again." Rhoslyn spoke in tones of an order, not a question, and a touch of resentment rose in him. "Do you never learn?"
But she was right, and he knew it, and every aching muscle reinforced it. "No. No. I will not go near the child. I must examine my resources. If Wriothesley has continued his climb in the court, I will have the perfect instrument for being rid of Elizabeth—one way or another."
Denoriel managed to mount without displaying any weakness and to hold himself steady in the saddle as Miralys took him past the palace gate and out into the road. He felt some concern about the effect of Gating when his power was at so low an ebb, but in fact Miralys must have managed the Gate because he was not even aware of the transition, only realizing he had arrived at Elfhame Avalon when the Gate appeared around him.
No one could mistake the glory that was Avalon's Gate. Overhead were the interwoven boughs of eight trees wrought of solid silver, and beneath Miralys's hooves, not marble, but a pavement-mosaic of an eight-pointed star, formed of thousands of pearly seashells, each smaller than the nail of a newborn baby's finger, and each so strong that thousands of years of contact with silver hooves and imperishable boot soles had not dimmed their luster or cracked even one.
The blind masks of all the guards turned toward him. Four featureless polished silver faces regarded him and then turned away; Denoriel knew he had been Seen and accepted and that he was free to go anywhere in Avalon. Just as well, too. Denoriel was a superior swordsman and he kept up his practice, but he knew that any of the guards could have taken him down in a few minutes. They were not automata, however. They were Sidhe who volunteered for this duty, serving for a hundred mortal years while training their replacements.
They were well rewarded, Denoriel knew, and had the intermittent pleasure of fighting periodic incursions of Unseleighe monsters. They had been particularly busy while Vidal was stricken with wounds from the mortal world; the Dark Court had been without governance and many thought if they could find the Gateway that the maidens and effete males of the Bright Court would be at their mercy. They would have learned better . . . except that none of those who passed the Gate had got farther than the Gate itself and its guardians.
If they had tried to come through in an organized force, it might have been different. Four guards, even guards such as these, could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. But the one thing that the Unseleighe had always been short of was cooperation. It was easier to herd crickets than organize the quarrelsome Unseleighe Sidhe, their minions, and underlings. Only fear of a greater power could force them into a whole, and with Vidal Dhu gone, there had been no one hand to rule them all.
Once out into the silvery light of Avalon, Denoriel began to feel restored. Power . . . Avalon was replete with power and Denoriel's spell sucked it in and filled his channels more quickly than a Sidhe's natural slow absorption. Nonetheless he stayed mounted, allowing Miralys to carry him swiftly across the wide, flower-starred lawn. Often Denoriel would leave Miralys on the lawn to graze for the pleasure of walking among the sweet scents and gentle breezes. Today he only wished to reach Aleneil quickly.
Miralys sensed his hurry. Three huge strides brought them from the Gate to the white wall that was the back of the Academicia. As they approached, part of the wall shimmered open into a dark passage. Miralys approached without hesitation. Denoriel felt the chill tingle of some recognition spell, which also acknowledged them with a breath of welcome and allowed them to pass.
Another wide lawn, this broken here and there by formal beds of flowers. In the distance was a gentle forest of slender birches with silver-white trunks, quivering aspens, and delicate-leaved red maples. Before the wood were white cottages, the farthest to the left Aleneil's home.
Miralys took him right to the door, which opened as he dismounted to show Aleneil, dressed exquisitely as Lady Alana but wearing—Denoriel was grateful to see—her own sweet and comely face.
"What is wrong?" she asked, hurrying out to take his hand. "I felt your exhaustion and anxiety as soon as you passed the Academicia boundaries."
He slid from Miralys's back, and was glad when his knees held steady beneath him. "Pasgen attacked Elizabeth. I believe he tried to kill her."
"No!" Her hand flew to her mouth in horror. "Oh, no. He would not. Pasgen is not a monster. He is Sidhe. He would not harm a child."
Remembering Ladbroke's thunderclap and the air spirit's description of "gone," Denoriel grinned. "Well, he did not harm her. Between Elizabeth and Blanche, they collapsed his Gate and cast him right out of the mortal world."
"Elizabeth? I know Blanche can spell-cast, but she is not strong enough to drive off Pasgen . . ." She blinked, and seemed to realize that he was fairly on his last legs. "Oh, come in and rest, Denno, dear."
She led him through the small entrance with its graceful sword rack and a closed door to the right, a small table flanked by two straight chairs and bearing a crystal dish for tokens and a fluted vase with a few flowers opposite, and an arched opening into the main sitting room to the left. Placing him in his favorite chair, she took a seat at right angles at the end of the settle.
The gentle blues and greens soothed him and the iridescent mother-of-pearl insets were smooth and cool under his fingers. Most of his strength was slowly returning, as if the very air of Underhill could restore him, but he was still quivering with tension, the smile long gone from his face.
And he still thought that Pasgen's intention had been deadly. "Can you think of a reason why Pasgen should disguise himself as Lord Denno and meet Elizabeth alone in the garden? He brought no changeling to take her place. What could he mean but murder?"
Aleneil shook her head. "I still cannot believe that. There are other things he could have intended. To attempt to abduct her while disguised as you would surely make trouble for you with Oberon as well as in the World Above. The abduction would not even need to succeed. Likely you could clear yourself with the High King, but it would ruin you in the mortal world. And—because we were foolish enough to call ourselves cousins for convenience—might well ruin me also. It would make us persona non grata among the English Court. Think, Denoriel. In every FarSeeing of Elizabeth as queen, you and I stand behind her. What if we were not there?"
The sharp knot of terror Denoriel had been carrying around inside him loosened. Surely Aleneil was right. Abducted was not dead. Elizabeth might be frightened, but she could be rescued. To abduct the daughter of the king would certainly be forbidden by Oberon and Denoriel knew he would easily receive permission to harrow all the Dark domains until she could be found. He almost smiled again, thinking how much he would enjoy a series of raids into Vidal's territory.
Aleneil sensed the easing of his anxiety. "Ah, you never thought of that, did you? But Vidal's FarSeers must get the same images we do. I do not think that Vidal wants to bring Oberon's wrath down on his head by arranging the death of a royal child, but attacks on you and me would certainly not be forbidden."
"No, and I do not care, if they prevent the Dark Court from aiming at Elizabeth, but still . . . No, someone more powerful than Blanche must watch over her, especially for the next week or so. Pasgen is going to be beside himself with rage at being thwarted by a maidservant and a child less than eight years old."
"Which brings me to ask how he was thwarted?" She tilted her head to the side, all curiosity now that her own fears were eased.
"I am not exactly certain," he replied slowly, "but I believe he was overconfident. From what the maid said, he must have copied some of the clothing from my clothes chest in Bucklersbury Street. Blanche said she should have prevented Elizabeth from going with him when she saw the clothes he was wearing. That might have alerted Elizabeth—she is very clever—so that she asked him some key questions."
"Key questions?" Aleneil asked sharply.
Denoriel shrugged. "She could have said, for instance, 'Have you seen my Da?' which I am certain Pasgen would have taken to mean her father. No matter what he said—yes or no—would have been wrong because 'Da' has never meant 'father' to Elizabeth. And perhaps if he approached her and her cross hurt him he would have told her to cover it. Then she would have known that the person was not me. Every time I see her I warn her never to put the cross away and not to trust anyone who urges her to do so."
"Even yourself?" Aleneil smiled.
"Most especially myself! I have told her that I have a brother who is mischievous and might lead her into trouble. But Pasgen and I are not identical. I think Elizabeth might see the differences between us if she were warned to look."
"How could a child see the differences if he were disguised as you?" she asked—but then blinked. "Oh, yes, I do remember that as a babe she could see through illusion. Do you think she still can?"
He nodded. "I think so. And I hope so, because she is clever enough never to give away what she sees. Except the time she saw that imp in her bedchamber."
"Yes, that was when you asked me to bespell an air spirit to watch over her." Aleneil frowned. "Why then is it that the air spirit did not give the alarm sooner?"
That, at least, he thought he had worked out. "Because Pasgen is enough like me that it just thought I was there. It had no reason to be alarmed until Pasgen began to threaten Elizabeth—which he must have done because then the spirit 'pulled the line to me' and, of course, arrived in London screaming of danger and that I must come at once. By the time I arrived, although I Gated direct into Elizabeth's bedchamber . . ."
His voice faded and he stared past Aleneil's shoulder. "Gated direct," he muttered. "Why was it so easy for me to open a Gate into Elizabeth's bedchamber?"
"Because Pasgen had made a Gate there the night of the battle," Aleneil said, her voice suddenly hard. "That is not a good thing. Having opened a Gate there once, he could do so again . . . Ah! That was how the imp got into her room. Well. Something must be done about that. The chamber must be watched."
Denoriel had left off smoothing the mother-of-pearl insets in the arms of the chair and was wringing his hands. "What am I to do?" he breathed. "No matter what I said I would not be welcome in Elizabeth's bedchamber and I cannot wear the Don't-see-me spell day and night forever. I—"
She shook her head."No, of course you cannot wear a spell for any length of time; however, I can make myself welcome in Elizabeth's bedchamber without any spells. Do you not remember that I have had an appointment as a maid of honor since Elizabeth was three? I seldom present myself for duty—it is agreed between Kat Champernowne and me that she can call on me if she needs me for some special purpose, but that I will not otherwise burden her household. Nevertheless, I always have a good reason for my presence there."
Denoriel nodded. "She is always short of money and most of the other maids of honor need their stipends."
"Exactly. However, if my cousin chooses to redecorate his house in London and I am sensitive to the smell of paint and polish, I believe Kat would allow me to stay at Hatfield until my cousin's house was again endurable." She smiled. "And if my cousin then has an incursion of relatives from the country—relatives with a large and noisy family—I will have further reason to stay. Should Kat begin to look askance at the drains on the household purse, my dear, considerate cousin will surely offer compensatory gifts for taking me off his hands."
Denoriel sagged bonelessly into his chair with relief. "Thank you, Aleneil. If you can watch over her, I will try to connect again with the duke of Norfolk. Perhaps he can explain why Elizabeth suddenly seems important to the Dark Court and we will better be able to judge how close a watch must be kept."
"And for how long." Aleneil was silent for a moment and then added, "I will Gate to Hatfield to arrive almost as soon as you left. I want to know exactly what happened in the garden . . . Blanche will tell me. We will have to take especial care if Elizabeth is like her mother. Untrained Talent is dangerous."
"It killed Anne," Denoriel muttered. "We must see to it that it proves a boon and not a bane to her daughter."