This Scepter'd Isle (28 page)

:Done: 
 

The little creature giggled happily and was gone. It had plainly enjoyed all the chasing and finding, but Denoriel hoped never to have another morning like this one. He slipped down to his knees and brushed the straw off the simulacrum.

The Don't-see-me spell had faded—Denoriel had not put much power into it because he expected to dismiss it shortly—and his breath caught at the likeness to Harry. Rhoslyn was a maker of rare skill. If it had not been for the aura of magic that imbued the child . . . construct . . . he would have been fooled. Denoriel shook his head, but then he reached out and smoothed back the little boy's hair.

What was he to do with this . . . this creature? He leaned closer, frowning. Surely the . . . the child's breathing was shorter and shallower than it had been, his little face paler? Denoriel's throat tightened. The spells! Could the sleep spell and his own Don't-see-me spell be drawing on the changeling's small store of power?

Denoriel snatched up the child, trembling with panic. But even as he was about to mount Miralys and tell him to breach the wall between the worlds, he realized he did not know what such violent transmission would do to the already fragile being he held in his arms. Would that be worse than another Don't-see-me spell? But the Don't-see-me spell would only be in effect for minutes.

Swallowing nervously, Denoriel cast it, and walked out of the stable, leading Miralys. He knew he looked awkward with one arm cocked across his chest as if he were carrying something—which, of course, he was—but he walked quickly, scowling, and none of the stable boys approached him.

Mounting was not easy, but Miralys helped, and then they were gone from the stable area and just rounding the curve that would take them to the front gate. And as soon as they were out of sight of the Windsor guards, Denoriel dismissed the Don't-see-me spell. He looked down into the child's face, which was surely paler and more pinched, and clutched the boy to him—but he didn't know how to send power into the child.

"Miralys," he breathed . . . and they were at the Gate to Elfhame Logres, and then Miralys stopped at Mwynwen's door.

Denoriel could not remember having decided what to do with FitzRoy's changeling, but Miralys was often wiser than he. This was obviously the best answer to the problem. He sent an anguished mental call to Mwynwen, and struggled out of the saddle. The door opened. Mwynwen stood in it, but there was no welcome in her face and little concern for what had forced that plea from him . . . until she saw the bundle in his arms.

"FitzRoy?" she gasped.

"No, his changeling. And it is dying, I think."

"Come in. Come in quickly."

The walls were all a soft and soothing white with moldings and borders of a pale, grayish blue that radiated calm. Denoriel had never paid much attention to this part of Mwynwen's home. Mostly he had come in through the garden to her private quarters and was not seeking calm but excitement and pleasure. If the effect had worked on him while he was ill, he did not remember it. Now he was grateful as the pain in his throat and chest eased and his bowels unknotted.

She led the way past two modest-sized reception rooms and a parlor to a cross corridor that had several closed doors. She turned left and went to the end of the corridor where she opened the last door. Denoriel's breath drew in with surprise. It was a small room, but the walls were painted with lively murals, scenes of childish gaiety—there were children rolling hoops, chasing each other, hiding behind bushes, playing with dogs and lambs.

The wall opposite the door held two large bay windows, each of which had a window seat that looked out—one onto a farmyard with ducks and geese, chickens and calves; the other onto a near meadow in which colts were at play. Against the right-hand wall was a small sofa, just large enough for a child and another person to sit side by side. Against the other was a small bed with a gay counterpane. In the center of the room was a table on which were blocks and some small figures.

Denoriel was stunned into silence. Magically cleaned and aired, how long had this room stood ready for the healing of a child?

"On the bed," Mwynwen ordered.

He laid the boy down, his arms loosing the child reluctantly. Mwynwen pushed past him, running her hands up and down from the simulacrum's head to his toes, whispering to herself, biting her lip and shaking her head. Denoriel stood back, wringing his hands in silent anxiety. He tried to think that what he felt was stupid; a changeling could not live long in any case. But all that line of reasoning accomplished was to bring back the pain in his chest and throat, the grinding in his belly, and tears to his eyes.

But then, Mwynwen drew a deep breath and laid her hands on the child's head. Now her voice rang out clear and Denoriel felt a tingling as some spell disintegrated and then a sort of rushing, as if a strong breeze blew past him, only the air did not move.

"Good morrow, sweetheart."

Denoriel blinked. He had never heard that tone in Mwynwen's voice, no matter how sweet, how intimate their caresses had been.

"Who are you?"

FitzRoy's voice. Denoriel swallowed hard.

"I am the lady with whom you are now to live, dearling."

Denoriel's lips parted to protest and then closed. Someone would have to watch over the changeling for signs of failing and if possible repair the fault. The best person to do that was Mwynwen. Aleneil could, but she was not principally a healer. And there was no need to ask if Mwynwen was willing; her eyes, her voice, the way she bent toward the child . . . construct . . . Denoriel recalled Aleneil's warning to him, but Mwynwen would know without telling. Even so, she would have fought him if he tried to take the changeling away.

"I am not to live with His Grace of Norfolk any longer?" The child looked worried and his voice was tremulous.

"You would not have done so in any case," Mwynwen said in a comfortable, matter-of-fact tone. "The move to Yorkshire changed all the plans. Do you know who you are, my love?"

"Of course. I am Henry FitzRoy, duke of Richmond and Somerset and earl of Nottingham."

"Oh, my," Mwynwen said, a smile in her voice. "That's rather a large mouthful isn't it? But since you are to live here with me, could we make it a bit shorter? Could I call you . . . Richey—short for Richmond?"

"I am not to be a duke any more?"

"Will you mind very much? Perhaps—"

"I won't mind at all," the changeling said. Suddenly his brow creased in a puzzled frown. "Someone was always telling me how I must act and . . . and . . . I suppose it was my guardian, but it was so hard to remember . . ."

"That's all done with. You don't need to remember any of it. Only remember that your name is Richey. Mwynwen is my name, and if you call me, I will always be there to help you. Now do you feel well enough to have some bread and milk?"

"Have I been ill?"

"No, love, not really. But you were taken on a long journey and that tired you. Are you still tired?"

The construct sat up. "Only a very little," he said. "But I don't feel like sleeping any more."

"No, indeed," Mwynwen agreed. "Come along with me now, Richey, and have a nice nuncheon."

Behind her back, Mwynwen made dismissive gestures at Denoriel. Again he felt like protesting and again swallowed the protest as he realized that Mwynwen didn't want Richey to see him. Likely she was afraid seeing him would wake some confused half-memories in Richey of what had happened since Rhoslyn brought him into the mortal world and Denoriel carried him back Underhill. So, very quietly, Denoriel backed away and stood quite still while Mwynwen maneuvered the little changeling out of the room. When they were gone, Denoriel made his way to the front door where he found Miralys waiting.

"Where now?" he mumbled to himself.

He leaned against the elvensteed, cold, empty, and exhausted, trying to dismiss his sense of loss and unable to decide whether the loss of Mwynwen or that of the changeling was the most painful. The elvensteed snorted gently, managing to convey a sense of disdain over folly. Denoriel sighed as he mounted, but his lips soon parted in silent laughter at himself.

How could the changeling have preferred him? It
wasn't
Harry. It had never seen him or known him. Even if the minds of the attackers had yielded images of him fighting them, Rhoslyn was unlikely to have transmitted those images to the changeling's mind. She would not want the simulacrum to feel any affection or dependence on him and the attackers would not have been aware of his relationship with Harry. And he wasn't as pretty as Mwynwen . . . even a six-year-old would notice that.

Was he piqued because Mwynwen had not been aware—or cared if she were aware—that he was hurt and depleted? Ridiculous when the changeling was in so much worse condition. No, he had to stop thinking of Richey only as Harry's simulacrum. They would grow in different directions now, no matter how long Richey lived. In a few months or a year—if Richey lived that long—they would not even look much alike, even though their features were similar, because life in the mortal world and Underhill was so different.

Harry's face would grow older faster with the need for wariness both physical and emotional. All stress would be absent in the bland, protected environment Mwynwen would provide for Richey, and the child . . . yes, child. Richey
was
a child, no matter how he had come to life. He would look young and innocent, probably for the whole short term of his existence. And how foolish it was to envy Mwynwen the care of him. He had Harry, and would have him for many years.

He was aware then of a shock of disorientation. If Miralys had not somehow held him to his saddle, he would have toppled to the ground. Which Gate, he wondered, and then did not need to wonder as Miralys came to a halt in front of Aleneil's cottage. Of course. He needed to tell Aleneil what had happened. His head was so thick right now; it felt as if it were stuffed with silk floss. Maybe she would have a better idea than he about what he should do next.

He managed to dismount and get to the door. It opened but Aleneil was not there. Denoriel knew he was always welcome in his sister's home and went through to the parlor where they usually talked. He felt a stirring in the air around him and understood that he could ask for food or drink and he would be served. He could not remember the last time he had eaten, but he wasn't hungry and just shook his head.

He sank into his favorite chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. His fingers traced the inlaid patterns of silky, cool mother-of-pearl and he felt calmer, but his thoughts still would not come clear. He kept seeing the tears on Rhoslyn's face. He had not known that she
could
cry. He wondered if she had put too much into the changeling. His eyes opened slowly and he stared across Aleneil's room. The walls were white but with the faintest rose tint, which made them warm and somehow cheerful. The ever-changing pictures were of sylvan scenes of exquisite beauty. His eyes closed again.

"You look as if you had been dragged backward through that precious Wild Hunt of yours. What have you been doing with yourself?"

Denoriel yawned and sat up, putting up a hand to rub the back of his neck, which was twisted. Elves did not sleep, but he must have been close to that state. Perhaps he was catching it from so much time spent in the mortal world. At least he felt better than he had when he arrived. He was not as cold or as empty, perhaps not as exhausted either, but he surely did not want to do anything yet.

"Preventing Rhoslyn from putting a changeling in Harry's place," he replied in answer to her question.

"A changeling!" Aleneil looked around as if she expected to see the construct lying about somewhere in her room.

Denoriel chuckled a little. "He was fading fast, poor little devil. I brought him to Mwynwen. She restored him and will keep him safe."

"Him?"

"She named him Richey, and I think she means to keep him alive as long as she can," he explained. "I can understand why. He is not like other constructs. He is truly a child. He talks and thinks and feels to a remarkable extent—if I had not known better, I would have mistaken him for FitzRoy. He knows who he is and has 'memories' of his earlier life. Rhoslyn intended him to pass for Harry without raising any doubts so that his death would be accepted as the end of any threat of a male to supplant Princess Mary as heir."

Aleneil looked troubled. "Was it wise to restore him? If Rhoslyn can snatch him back—"

He rubbed his chin uneasily. "She believes I killed him. She called me a murderer, and I did not contradict her. She . . . she wept."

"Oh, poor Rhoslyn," Aleneil sighed. "To make a changeling so real, she must have invested a huge amount of herself in the creature. Oh, dear. She would not have done that unless she felt it truly important that FitzRoy be removed from the world, and I suppose that means that she and Pasgen
have
seen the image of the future that we have. Tell me what happened."

So Denoriel described the entire morning to her, beginning with his summons to Windsor by the white kitten and ending with the scene in Mwynwen's house. That last made Aleneil's lips compress, but she said nothing, clearly feeling that Mwynwen was more than old enough to know how she should and should not bestow her time, energy, and heart.

All she said was, "I do not need to warn you to keep a close watch on FitzRoy. I am glad I was able to renew the spell on the air spirit only a little while ago. It will be attentive, especially because there was an attempt on the boy. And do not allow
yourself
to be distracted. The most likely device they will try is to attack some innocent and helpless member of the party traveling north. Do
not
go to rescue the innocent or you are likely to lose FitzRoy."

He nodded. "I had thought of that already. Fortunately Norfolk is not going with us. He is needed in London and may go to France on some diplomatic mission. Northumberland has gone ahead to be sure all is ready. Lord Dacre was supposed to accompany the cortege, but his gout is crippling and he has sent his brother Sir Christopher Fiennes. That one is not the most perceptive of men and Norfolk seems not to have warned him about preventing my closeness to the boy. I think there will be no trouble if I actually ride beside Harry. I know his guards will not object; they are aware of my skill with a sword."