This Scepter'd Isle (12 page)

One of the things Rhoslyn and Pasgen bitterly envied their Seleighe half-twins was their elvensteeds. Barely in their teens, they had invaded Seleighe territory for the single purpose of getting mounts for themselves. But elvensteeds, they discovered, could not be accustomed to many of the sights and sounds in the Unseleighe Domain of their master. They were restless and unsettled, even when the Domain was quiet, and unless confined, which was virtually impossible without the expenditure of enormous amounts of power, they would flee the place and not respond to their riders' summons. Perhaps in another realm or Domain, a quieter one, they might prove to be reliable and tractable mounts, but not here.

An alternative was clearly necessary, and Rhoslyn had sought for and found an Unformed region where the mists of formative stuff were particularly thick and sensitive. There she had worked over many years, gathering, forming, strengthening, and transferring crude sentience until she had created two beasts, not horses, certainly not elvensteeds, but something she and her brother could ride. The not-horses were stronger and cleverer than the mortal animals and far more vicious, but they could be controlled. One important aspect of the elvensteeds that Rhoslyn had not yet been able to duplicate was their ability to travel Underhill or reach it from the mortal world, and vice versa, without a Gate.

The twins mounted, after cuffing the restive mounts. Pasgen led, since it was his private domain—or one of them; Rhoslyn was not sure how many he had—to which they were going. He rode past the elaborate Gate Vidal Dhu had built outside the palace courtyard, straight ahead until the manicured lawn began to disappear into a tangle of trees and bushes. Only, when they came really close it was apparent that these were not well-defined constructs but blurred and ill-formed figments.

"He called us lazy," Pasgen muttered. "I wouldn't leave a dog-kennel in this half-done condition."

"It makes it easier to know where we are," Rhoslyn said, applying a sharp mental prod to the not-horse, which started to shy at the approach to the edge of reality.

Pasgen snorted and Rhoslyn recognized the strange mixture of awe and contempt: awe for the enormous power that could create the semblance of a large forest, probably with one careless gesture; contempt for the sloppy indifference that would then leave the work half done. Rhoslyn wondered as they passed through the ill-defined border and out into nothingness, how long it would be before Pasgen was tried too far and challenged Vidal. She shuddered, knowing she would be standing beside Pasgen when he tried. She could not help it; despite their differences, loyalty, and yes, love, bound them.

Her brother paused, Rhoslyn holding in her mount beside him; he lifted his head and swung it slowly right to left, his nostrils flaring slightly as if he were a scenting hound. After a moment, he set out at a slight angle to the direction in which they had crossed into the unfinished part of Vidal's domain.

Rhoslyn gathered power from the swirling mists in case she had to drive off something inimical. Vidal had left behind some very unpleasant things when he grew bored with creation. Perhaps he had intended them to be guards of his lands or denizens of the forest with which he had planned to surround his palace, but he had never finished his work so the creatures roamed free, taking what life force they could for their sustenance.

Defense was not necessary, however. They soon came to the end of Vidal's Domain and passed into another area of swirling mists and erratic breezes. Here Pasgen paused again, his body tense as he seemed to listen, but Rhoslyn knew he was feeling, sending out all his senses. She would have done the same, except that she did not know what Pasgen was seeking. In any case, she would not have had time because he nodded almost immediately.

"It's here. I came a different way, but I thought if we went off at that angle that we would avoid Wormegay Hold."

"Urgh!" Rhoslyn said. "That's a place I really hate. Why in the world did you set your Gate there?"

There were, of course, a number of Gates in and around Vidal Dhu's palace. Neither Rhoslyn nor Pasgen used them, unless they were going to the mortal world or to some place with a group to make merry or make mischief. Neither wanted Vidal able to trace where they had built their own private Domains, so the Gates that had those destinations were always built in Unformed areas that were not easy to find. Moreover they never worked or remained longer in those areas than necessary to reach their Gates.

Pasgen laughed at Rhoslyn's reaction as he set off at a quick place, quite sure of his direction. "I don't have a Gate in Wormegay," he said, "but except for this one finger that touches Vidal's domain, it's the only way into this area. Most people don't like Wormegay, but it has outlets into about twenty Other places." He was silent for a little while, then said thoughtfully, "I wonder if Wormegay is a sink of some kind, if all the oddities without power drain down into it and then can't get out."

"You do have weird ideas," Rhoslyn said, keeping her mount right on Pasgen's heels. She did not want to become separated from him in the formless mists and either need to call for help or spend who knew how long sensing for a Gate which he, doubtless, had hidden well.

Rhoslyn never did see it. She only knew they had passed through by the brief sense of disorientation, which made her not-horse hiss, and the fact that she was suddenly on the outskirts of the Bazaar of the Bizarre. Rhoslyn sighed, knowing Pasgen would not let her stop. She envied him his self-control as they rode into the market and were deafened by every creature known and unknown crying his/hers/its/their wares, assaulted by such a variety of odors in such quick succession that one could not enjoy the delectable or reject the obnoxious, and the sights . . . they were en masse indescribable.

Without hesitation, Pasgen wove through the crowds—here even the not-horses received no particular attention—and darted down this alley and that. Eventually he opened a shabby but not noticeable gate and passed through to what seemed the backyard of an inn. He rode into an empty stall of the stable . . . and disappeared. Rhoslyn rode in on his not-horse's heels and rode out into another Unformed area.

Here at last they came to the Gate that debouched into Pasgen's Domain, although Rhoslyn admitted to herself that she probably would not be able to find it again. That wasn't significant. Pasgen had provided her with her own path to his domain, but that, equally devious, started from her own and all the Gates were keyed to her and "called" her.

Anyone who knew Pasgen would instantly know they had arrived in his home place. It was quite beautiful, but wholly and completely unnatural. There were trees, but they were perfect, with exactly symmetrical branches that bore perfectly shaped leaves exactly spaced on each branch. And those leaves glittered and tinkled when they touched each other in the very slightly perfumed breeze that blew gently, first one way and then another. The bushes were equally perfect, some low and rounded, some squared, some taller, shaped gracefully from a wider base to a peak. They glittered too, and rustled musically.

The not-horses walked quietly along the soft lavender graveled road that wound gracefully through the outer lawns to the inner gardens. Rhoslyn sighed. Not a flower was out of place, not a leaf wilted. Even the bees flew in perfect patterns, and the butterflies danced predictably in defined groups to gentle music. Perfection. Peace. Stagnation!

"You don't like it?" Pasgen asked.

He always asked the same question, as if a short absence would have changed her mind. Rhoslyn shook her head. "I like a little disorder."

"Don't we have enough disorder in our lives?" Pasgen's voice was edged and rough.

Rhoslyn looked away and her voice was so soft only a Sidhe's ears could catch it. "A little happy disorder."

If Pasgen heard, he did not respond and around the next bend the house came into view. It too was beautiful, if stark. Pure white marble with black accents to mark the graceful curves and outline the many windows. There were no fanciful towers or turrets. The house was low, only two levels . . . at least only two levels above ground. What was below Rhoslyn did not know and did not want to know.

They went left when they entered through the gates, which drew apart as soon as Pasgen approached. Large, smooth-bodied servitors came forward to take the not-horses to a stable that complimented the house without obtruding. Servitors were constructs, beautifully made, neither handsome nor ugly. They were incredibly strong, totally without volition although capable of carrying out instructions, and mindlessly devoted to Pasgen, although they would obey and protect her too, Rhoslyn knew.

Entering through the side door brought them to a small room where one could wash one's hands and change one's shoes if earth from the garden clung to them. They exited into a wide but not intimidating corridor with neutral, pleasant walls and rugs. A few doors down were two arches open onto the public rooms of Pasgen's house. On one side was a handsome dining parlor, all stark black and white: white walls, black floor; white marble table, ebony chairs. It was too familiar for Rhoslyn to give it more than a single glance.

On the other side was the room in which Pasgen entertained guests. The color scheme was the same, except for colored cushions here and there, but the colors were muted. Rhoslyn sank into a corner of a white leather—settle, she supposed, although it was heavily padded, not like the settles she knew at all, with the padding covered in the leather. She was surprised as she always was at how comfortable it was. Somehow despite frequent visits to her brother's dwelling she always expected the rigid-appearing furniture to be uncomfortable as it looked; instead it was smooth, enveloping, soothing.

"Something to drink? Eat?" Pasgen asked.

"Wine, I think, after that session." Rhoslyn watched Pasgen make a sign in the air and, after a moment, one of the servitors came in carrying a tray which held a bottle and two crystal glasses. "How could we have so overlooked the boy?" she wondered as the servitor set the tray on a clear glass table set on ebony legs. Pasgen lifted the crystal bottle and poured. "How could we have neglected to check up on him? He
is
the king's only living son."

"I'm amazed you need to ask," Pasgen said, handing her a glass into which he had poured a delicate pink wine. "What could it be except an arrangement by our dearly, dearly beloved half-sister and -brother." His fine, clear skin flushed slightly. "Can you believe a Seeing came to you and to me about the fate of this sceptered isle that did not come to Aleneil and Denoriel? Our powers are mirrored; we are two edges of the same sword. They could not interfere with that, and, of course, they would not put the child Mary at risk, but they must have layered on misdirection spells. . . ."

Rhoslyn nodded slowly and sipped the wine. Like everything else in Pasgen's Domain it was delicious, gentle, soothing. She had to fight the effect, and her voice was sharper than usual when she said, "That wouldn't be Denoriel. He's never paid much attention to magic and I don't think he has much Talent." Her mouth turned down in disdain. "He only wants to be a mighty swordsman, a brave warrior, and nothing more."

"Possibly." Pasgen, who had finished his glass of wine and was pouring another, had regained control of his temper. "Does it matter who covered that child with spells? Aleneil could have done it. She's pretty strong. The point is that we now know. What are we going to do about it."

"Snatch the boy, of course."

Pasgen shook his head at his sister. "Not so easy now that an attempt has been made on his life." He flushed again with rage. "That fool! That incompetent! I'll have the skin off Martin Perez for trying to kill that child and not telling me about him."

Rhoslyn laughed. "No, don't do that. Mortals tend to die without their skins unless they are Underhill. And he might be useful in the future since he is apparently a mage. How good is he, Pasgen?"

"I never bothered to test him." He sighed. "You know, Rhoslyn, Vidal was not so far off the mark when he called us—me, anyway—careless and lazy. I knew Martin Perez had Talent, but I had no idea he knew how to use it." He was silent for a short time, but Rhoslyn saw he was thinking hard and did not speak. Then he took another sip of wine and said, "I wonder if that was more work by dear Aleneil. Is it possible that she is bespelling us so that we will not take this situation seriously?"

"Who knows what Aleneil and those teachers of hers will do. Liars . . . Hypocrites . . . Power is nothing, they say, but they use it. Oh, how they use it, sucking it from the air, from the ground, and blaming us for taking it from pain and death."

Her voice was hard and louder than usual as she fixed her attention on blaming the Seleighe Sidhe, on not remembering, not
ever
desiring, the music and laughter and applause in a certain theater in London when the red-haired queen ruled.

Pasgen looked at his sister, surprised by the angry passion in her voice. Usually Rhoslyn was the milder of them when discussing their Seleighe kin. He did not want to come right out and ask if their present project for seating Mary on the throne and bringing the Inquisition to England was making her uncomfortable. It was not knowledge he wanted in his mind when he came before Vidal Dhu again.

"We are wandering from the point," he said. "I agree that we must somehow take the child, I merely meant to point out that he will be far better guarded now that Perez made such a disastrous mistake."

"Against a nun? One single, small nun? A nun vouched for by Princess Mary's governess?"

Denoriel was not simply able to say "Good night," to FitzRoy and leave, as agreed with Norfolk. Even though he had taken the precautions of looking in the cupboards and under the bed—in fact anywhere a frightened little boy could believe a person might conceal himself, when he gave the boy a last hug and turned away, FitzRoy burst into tears. His guards tried to intervene—not, of course, the same guards who had been at the garden gate—these two knelt and assured the boy that they would guard his door with their lives. On the whole, the poor child had been amazingly brave up to this point; small wonder that he gave vent to his feelings now. One, at least, of these guards must have had a young child of his own; without losing a particle of his deference, he looked into FitzRoy's eyes, and redoubled his assurance that the boy was safe.